Hook, line, and sinker
by Airgead
Summary: RE-POSTED STORY - STILL IN PROGRESS. Malcolm, Ruth and Harry. Oh dear. This story follows the series, but events diverge considerably therefrom, as will be seen. Rated M for upcoming chapters. Disclaimer- I don't own Spooks or the characters, Kudos does - if I did, there might have been a story arc like this!
1. Chapter 1

Yes, I know. It's the classic cliché. And you'd think I would be old enough and wise enough to know better, but I suspect we're all fools when it comes to matters of the heart. It's just that from the moment she first tripped into the meeting room, trailing highly classified files behind her, late for her first day and apologising in a voice made high by nervousness, I looked into those enormous, candid, aquamarine eyes, and I fell for her, hook, line and sinker. Most unusual, that, for someone like me.

You see, someone like me leads with their head, never with their heart. My head is a known quantity: a place of cool, rational, logical thought and factual analysis, full of patterns and codes, a safe haven of intellect and reason. With my heart, it is not quite the same thing, at all. Apart from my mother, I'd allowed no woman access in more than twenty years, not since Sarah had trampled all over it on her way out of our ill-fated engagement. My heart had since become a sad and shrivelled thing, or as T. S. Eliot put it so well, a rag and bone shop. My work kept me fully occupied, looking after Mum after Dad died took up the rest of my time, and I was happy enough, or so I thought. All that changed the day Ruth Evershed appeared on the Grid. It was a Tuesday, and raining. I remember thinking that her eyes looked like the ocean when it rains – huge, deep and the most extraordinary shade of blue, so pale in certain lights, they're almost green.

I know, too, that I'm not good with women – Sarah left me with a long and brutal list of my shortcomings in that department, quite confidence shattering, really. Designing spook gadgets, installing bugs, carrying out remote surveillance and making sense of bags of shredding lifted from someone else's office – these are things I am rather better at, if I do say so myself. Oh, and gardening. I love my garden. It's full of interesting plants. When Mum came to live with me a few years ago, my life became another cliché – the confirmed middle-aged bachelor, living with his elderly mother, doing an obscure Government job and pottering round the garden on a Sunday.

For more than a week after her arrival, I was so tongue-tied whenever I was near Ruth that even in team briefings I could barely speak, and then only in monosyllables. Well, I was never loquacious to begin with, so perhaps it went unnoticed by the others. Colin knew, but he would never have said anything. He was the soul of discretion, was Colin. I miss him, every day. And all the others who one day left the Grid, went out into the wide and dangerous world, and never came back, because they were far braver and more courageous than I could ever be. But I digress.

Ruth. She has become the heart and soul of Section D – everyone's confidante, the person who people go to for the difficult jobs, the ones which require her light touch and brilliant mind. Ruth brings people cups of tea, unbidden, just to cheer them up, and she always remembers to put a biscuit on the saucer. Nice ones, too, from her own personal supply of Hobnobs and custard creams. Ruth is kind to people, which is rare enough in our trade, and she is quite simply the best listener in the world. When Ruth listens, she stops whatever else she is doing and turns her gaze on you like twin blue spotlights, and she listens with deep concentration and total attention, as if she is now breathing in your words instead of the chill, dry air of the Grid. Sometimes she will tuck her hair back behind both ears, as if to hear you all the better. I used to think that if a bomb was to go off behind her while she was engaged in listening to someone, she would neither flinch nor turn until they had finished. That was in the early days, before I realised how things really were. Now, I still think that a bomb could indeed go off behind her and she wouldn't turn a hair, but let the Head of Section D so much as set foot on the Grid, and her attention would shift almost imperceptibly to wherever he was, even while maintaining her focus on whatever she was doing at the time.

An incident that I think of privately as the HM Customs Tea Party is probably where I should begin, chronologically speaking, a few months after Ruth joined our merry band. Some clumsy clot at HM Customs had managed to pour the entire contents of his capacious Arsenal anniversary mug of tea into a US diplomatic crate full of files while doing a bit of not-strictly-kosher snooping for Five, and of course the whole mess was duly delivered to me for fixing up. The tannins in tea are impossible to bleach or launder out of paper files, so I was facing a long night of file forgery, when Ruth came to see what that nice young Scottish girl, Sam, was talking about when she said there was a spot of bother with the crate.

Ruth's beautiful eyes sparkled briefly with amusement, then became darker and more serious as she assessed the damage, and the size of the job I ahead of me. "Tea?" she asked, more as a statement than a question. I groaned at the idea of letting any more liquid near the crate, then smiled at her. "I'm afraid so. Coffee, and we might have gotten away with it, but tea…" She smiled back at me and said, "I know, it practically screams English eyes in here have pryed. I've got a few things to do right now, but if you like, I'll come back in an hour and help with the copying?" I blinked in surprise – apart from Colin, it wouldn't occur to anyone to offer to help me. Not because they were thoughtless, but because I have always just gotten on with the job and delivered whatever was needed on time. I was sure that she was just making the offer to seem nice, but while I was trying to think of a gracious response, Zoe called for her on the Grid and she left me with a quick "I'll be back, I promise!" spoken over her shoulder.

And to my astonishment, she was. One hour and forty-five minutes later, to be precise, but she came back, rolled up her sleeves, and asked me where I wanted her, in a completely matter of fact tone, unaware of any innuendo. She's not that sort of woman, Ruth. She would have blushed to the tips of her ears, then fled the room, if she had realised it, or if I had said something suggestive in reply. Not that I would have – I'm hardly a seductive smooth talker, and such comments would have been flagrantly disrespectful even if I were – so I pointed her to the high-resolution photocopier, and set her to work making clean copies of the file contents, while I continued to compile them. Luckily we had plenty of the right sort of paper stock to hand - one never knows when one might be called upon to do a little forging of US government files, after all!

As we worked, we began to chat. Small talk mainly, the sort of thing which workmates talk about when they are getting to know each other. In our game, that sort of chit-chat doesn't come easily, because of the secrets we all keep, but I found that talking to her was easy. With her GCHQ background, she knew exactly what not to ask about, and so I found myself speaking with her as I would to a colleague of many years. She told me about her cats, about how moving to central London from Cheltenham had been harder on them than she had expected, and how she had always wanted to work for Five. I could see why – her mind is first rate, and coupled with her intelligence, she has a sort of intuition which often connects seemingly random events to come up with a compelling new analysis of the facts. I really don't like to talk about myself, actually I couldn't think of anything worse, but I wanted to make a favourable impression on this beautiful and kind person, standing in her stocking feet (she had kicked off her heels not long after taking up her station at the copier), painstakingly running top-secret US documents one by one through the machine, selflessly helping me when she should have left hours ago. So, I told her about this and that – how I had come to Five, where I had grown up, my favourite books, how I loved the seaside more than any other place – small talk, but I found myself wanting to tell her so much more.

Ruth was listening attentively, nodding in all the right places, when she glanced at her watch and then exclaimed at the time. "Oh no, it's after midnight! My poor cats will think I've abandoned them!" and apologising, she began to put her shoes back on, preparatory to leaving. She looked at me and realised I wasn't going to leave with her. "Isn't there someone you need to get back to, Malcolm?" she asked, her luminous eyes watching me as I continued to work, and then I said it. "Mum will have gone to bed hours ago, so no, not really. There was…going to be someone else, once, but it…well, no". I was appalled. Why was I telling her this? Why was I telling her that I was that thing that all sensible women fled, a man who lived with his mother, and one with an ancient, failed relationship, at that? Her kind expression didn't change as I faltered into awkward silence. She simply nodded, then said, "I'll see you on the Grid tomorrow, or should that be today?" and with a final smile, left me to my forging.


	2. Chapter 2

The sun had started to lighten the horizon as I drove home, four hours later. My back and shoulders ached from the finicky work of replicating the damaged files, and there was a thumping headache starting up behind my eyes. Too much to do, too late, too often, I thought as I crept into the house so as not to wake my mother (she sleeps like the proverbial log, but still, it wouldn't do to startle her after her heart operation) and up the stairs to my bedroom.

I envy Harry Pearce his ability to down a couple of stiff whiskeys, then fall asleep anytime, anywhere, but it doesn't work for me. I prefer to stand under the hottest shower I can bear until my muscles and mind are relaxed enough for sleep, washing out the tension of the day. It was nearly four-thirty when I finally fell into bed, and I knew I would have to be back on the Grid in another four hours, but I couldn't sleep. Normally, the hot shower does the trick, but tonight (this morning?) all it seemed to do was wake me up. Or perhaps it was because I couldn't stop thinking about Ruth. Her unconscious grace as she moved, her small, square hands feeding papers into the copier and handing them to me, the way she tilted her head and smiled gently at me as we talked. Her feet, peeping through her sheer black stockings, were finely made. The true mark of a lady, my sainted grandmother would have said. And then there's the rest of her…

I had only ever known one woman in the Biblical sense, and then only a few times after our engagement was announced, before Sarah left me for some loud, brash City type in an Italian suit – for someone who was everything I'm not. Since then, I had tried my very best to not think about women _in that way, _especially asSarah had made it clear that in bed, I was dismal at best and a complete failure at worst. So I threw myself into my work and took long walks on the Heath and went swimming in the Ponds (yes, even in winter) and did everything I could think of to quell _those sorts of thoughts_ and finally, over a period of twenty years, thought I had got myself under control. Even the sights and sounds of our more…_intimate _surveillance operations didn't get under my skin anymore. I truly loathe the voyeuristic aspect of our work, but I recognise the operational necessity of it. One has to be as detached as a surgeon and as ascetic as a Trappist monk, but it is possible to desensitise oneself to almost anything. Almost.

Now, I found myself struggling to regain that supreme sense of detachment which had served me so well for so long, but failing parlously. Ruth dressed modestly, in long skirts and demure blouses – if you didn't know what she was, you might glance at her and think she was a University tutor, or a holistic healthcare provider - something artsy or alternative. It was a refreshing change from the way most of the other Five women dressed, in tight, aggressively man-tailored clothes that I find intimidating rather than attractive. With Ruth, it's all about understatement. Her clothes skim her elegant curves, hang in soft folds, have frills and tucks and pleats. She looks like she would be soft to touch, not taut and tough. Her hair is a deep chocolate brown, and the way the ends turn under and frame her oval face looks natural. She is the most beautiful woman I have ever met, and I can't get her out of my mind. I wonder what she sees when she looks at me in that kind way of hers. Probably she thinks I'm some old relic in a tweed jacket, too stuffy, a bit timid, spending his days in geekdom, hiding in the back rooms of the Grid because he doesn't have the social skills to cut it in the real world. I finally fall asleep, though, contemplating how it would feel to have her here beside me, her dark hair spread across the pillow, the sheet slipping off her slim shoulder as she turns towards me and…well, it doesn't do to do dwell on what one can't have, does it?

For the next few weeks, I live off the memory of the Customs Tea Party. Oh, I saw her every day of course, and sometimes she would stop for a few minutes' chat if she had the time, but Ruth was being kept busy by everyone else, and as her secondment end date approached, she worked even harder than usual to try and convince Harry to keep her at Five. Indeed, her zeal was noted and remarked on by many on the Grid. I was despondent at the idea that she might return back to Cheltenham, when at the end of a long op involving…actually, that doesn't matter, we'll just say that tonight, Ruth announced that Harry had extended her secondment. Tonight is Harry's birthday drinks, as it happens, and oh, how her eyes sparkled and shone with joy unconfined as she told us. The way she looks at Harry, shyly, from beneath her lashes, is almost unbearable to see, even while I admit to myself that of course, it would have to be him. It would have to be Harry bloody Pearce.

Harry and I go back a hell of a long way, more than fifteen years, in fact. He's my boss, but he's also my friend. Ours is a friendship forged in the heat of battle – I've gotten him out of many a tight spot thanks to my vigilance in the surveillance van, and he has saved my life on more than one occasion. He won my undying gratitude by backing up my story with my mother when he met her at the Security Services ball, early in my career – I hadn't wanted to disappoint her by admitting that I was considered too timid for real spy work, and had instead told her that I was a daring field officer, a true James Bond type – and Harry, straight-faced, had backed me to the hilt, to my mother's great delight. I'd lay down my life for him, and he would lay down his for me. For all that Harry says that there are no friends in our line of work, just colleagues who we die for, he's wrong, and we have the history to prove it.

Harry actually gives a damn about his team; beyond that, he's immensely likeable, and a true study in contradictions. He's well read, fond of Shakespeare, as am I, a hard hearted realist who loves the English Romantic poets, a military man who now negotiates the minefield of politics and the notorious corridors of power in Whitehall with the same instinctive approach that kept him alive as a field agent on the other side of the Iron Curtain. In our world of shifting shadows and allegiances that can be made or broken in a moment, Harry Pearce is that rarest of things, a man so anchored by his own integrity and his personal code of honour, that he has become the still point at the centre of all things Section D, as Connie once observed - perhaps it was the truest thing she ever said. But that's a tale for another time.

To turn to the other side of his character, the side that particularly concerns me now, I can confidently say that when we first met all those years ago, Harry was by reputation the biggest Casanova in the Service, with a string of affairs to his name, plus one bitter divorce and two alienated children. He was ruggedly handsome, blond, charming, and morally flexible, to put it delicately, when it came to sleeping with whomever his eye fell upon.

Now, he's more rugged than handsome and his fair, slightly curly hair has receded (then again, whose hasn't?) but his charm is unimpaired and God only knows what his moral standards, or lack of, are like, after all this time doing whatever he likes, in the bedroom department. Harry Pearce is a force of nature where women are concerned. They sink themselves adoringly in his shadow, they appear to live only to see him again, and when he's around, all bets are off for the rest of us. Sometimes it feels, when he walks into a room, as if his presence fills it to the extent where it becomes difficult to draw breath, especially if he's in a passion about something. Women seem to notice him almost before he enters the room, just as they inevitably fail to see me even when I'm standing in front of them. I have seen it too often to think it mere coincidence. Harry has It, in spades, and I don't even know what It is, where the fairer sex is concerned. If he wasn't such a thoroughly decent sort, who has sacrificed so much in the line of duty, he'd be very easy to hate.

It's his personality, I think, which attracts them most. He's a born leader, forceful and decisive, yet still able to hear and act on the advice of others. He's a formidable opponent, a battle-scarred survivor of more intrigue and Cold War spy work than the rest of his team put together. There's a quirky, mischievous side to him too, which he only rarely indulges in. But most of all, it's his enormous self-confidence and unshakeable belief in what he does, that draws people to him. In short, he is remarkable, and I know how fortunate the country is to have a man like Harry Pearce on constant terror watch. Harry, although he would groan to hear me say it, is the living embodiment of the Service motto, _Regnum Defende._ Earlier today, as I yet again witnessed Ruth's adoring gaze across the Grid at Harry's office (she would be so mortified if she realised that everyone on the Grid knows how often she does that), another bit of Latin occurred to me, and I adapted it to fit the circumstance: _Caveat Ruth._ Ruth, beware.


	3. Chapter 3

From a safe distance at the edge of the gathering of birthday well-wishers on the Grid, I watch Harry covertly to see if he is aware of, or interested in, the way Ruth glances at him as she makes her announcement, and am startled to see a slow flush of colour suffusing his face as he avoids looking at her directly. His face is carefully neutral in expression, but the flicking of his fingers against his left leg suggests that he is keen to escape her gaze, and as he turns away to engage Tom in conversation, I sense rather than see his relief.

Perhaps he finds it embarrassing, I think, as I sit quietly, nursing my drink. After all, there would have to be an age gap of fifteen years or more for one thing (but that's not really too bad, or so I would like to think), and for another, it's the oldest and most tired cliché in the book – a naïve young woman falls in love with her older and more worldly boss - and then there's the fact that Ruth is nothing, nothing, like any of his other women. Where they are overtly sexual, she is modest and shy to the point of painfulness. Harry has always gone for confident, aggressive, hard-edged women, women who demand what they want and know how to get it, women who don't take things too seriously. But I know that a relationship with Ruth would be a delicate and slow undertaking. To move too fast, would be to lose her forever. I know that Ruth isn't sure of herself, doesn't know her own worth, can't quite conceive that someone might think her absolutely marvellous just as she is. I know all these things, because they are true for me, too. Ruth and I are so similar in that regard, you see. We are so alike, even down to our admiration for the same man.

A couple of hours later, I find myself offering to drive Ruth home, as she has had more celebratory champagne than perhaps was wise, and I have had just the one glass of Beaujolais, at the start of the night. Everyone else has left, the younger ones – Danny, Zoe, Sam and even Colin, going on together to a riverside nightclub, while Tom left not long after the CIA liaison, Miss Dale, took her leave, an hour or so earlier. Harry is ensconced again in his office, door shut, blinds closed. That could mean anything, I think, as I see Ruth standing at her workstation, looking uncertainly at the Inner Sanctum, as the Section refers to Harry's office, although never in his hearing. I cough slightly as I approach her, so as not to startle her in the gloom of a half-lit and almost deserted Grid, and she turns towards me with a small smile which does not quite reach her eyes. "He's not actually going to work now, is he?" she asks me. "I mean, surely not, not on his birthday!"

I gently tell her that Harry hasn't actually cared about his birthday for as long as I have known him, and she looks stricken at the thought. I ask her if she would like a lift home rather than risking the bus at this time of night, and to my surprise, she accepts gratefully. She's not really drunk, just what my mother would call tipsy, but bravely, I offer her my arm as we leave the Grid, and she takes it, saying that so few men nowadays ever think of the little courtesies that make life civilised. Yes, I'm definitely a dinosaur to her. As we reach the pods, we have to separate to walk through them, and I suddenly become aware that I'm being watched, with that sixth sense that all spooks develop if they live long enough. I turn round to see Harry standing at the doorway to his office, and while I can't see his face in the semi-darkness of the Grid, I can feel the strange intensity with which he is watching us, and a shiver runs up my spine.

Once through the pods, Ruth slips her hand back under my arm as we walk together to the car park lifts in the foyer, and Harry's stare seems to take on a laser-like quality. I hurry her along, into the lift, down several levels, and then into my car – an old silver Rover I inherited from my father – before Harry decides to follow us out. Ruth settles herself comfortably into the worn red leather of the passenger seat, and runs her hand lightly over the burl walnut coachwork of the dash. "It's beautiful, Malcolm, a really fine old motor. They don't make them this way any more, do they? It's a bit like yourself, really…do you know how rare it is to meet a true gentleman these days?" She turns in her seat to look at me, and I have to remind myself to concentrate on driving safely out of the garage, instead of looking into those eyes, glowing softly now. Her eyes are always the best indicator of her mood, I have observed, but I have never seen them looking like this. Not at me. It's the champagne, I decide, giving her a half smile in reply as I swing the car out onto Horseferry Road.

I know where Ruth lives – we all know where each other lives – so she settles back and watches London slip past the window, while I take the long way to her house. If she notices, she doesn't say anything. That's a good sign, I tell myself, trying to calm my racing heart by doing impossibly long divisions in my head, reciting the periodic table (backwards as well as forwards) and constantly reminding myself to focus on the road, and not on her. My hands tremble on the wheel, as I have to talk myself through each gear change. It's ridiculous, for a man who has been driving for almost longer than she's been alive. The traffic is light this late at night, and even taking the long way is quicker than I had hoped. As I pull up at her semi-detached Victorian house near Kennington, she sits up and thanks me for driving her home, and I'm just about to say _it's nothing, really, it was on my way_ (which isn't strictly true) when she delicately slides her right hand over my left, which is still clutching the walnut steering wheel, and says my name in that low, soft voice of hers. "Malcolm," she says, and stops. Her eyes go to our joined hands with a puzzled look and then gently, she prises my hand away from the wheel and takes it in both of hers. "Are you cold? Why are you trembling?" I can't get the breath to form a single syllable, and my heart appears to have dislodged itself from my rib cage and relocated to my throat, so I just look at her head bent over my hand. _Oh God, let me say the right thing, and grant me the breath to say it with_, I pray, while trying to recall if I have an inhaler in the glovebox..._damn this wretched asthma!_

After what seems like aeons, I manage to gasp out her name – "Ruth!"and she looks up at me. Her eyes are gentle and full of trust, and suddenly the fear leaves me, my chest unclenches, and I can draw breath easily again. I reclaim my hand from hers and with the lightest touch I can manage, I say, "I just wanted to say how very glad I am that you came to Five, and that you'll be staying with us. And that…that…that we're friends. I haven't many real friends, but I'm proud to count you as one." I stop to take another deep, calming breath. _Damn it, I sound like a callow youth_. Harry would never stutter or shake if he spoke to Ruth, I'm certain. He's too experienced, too cocksure, to be rendered speechless by any woman. Ruth's eyes haven't moved from my face. She has not one scrap of guile, I realise, as I look at her. All her thoughts are in her eyes. I see so many things there – affection, kindness, and that almost ethereal quality which is the most Ruth thing of all. She looks away for a moment, and then speaks, her voice mellow and relaxed with champagne and happiness.

"I'm so pleased that I came to Five too, and that I have made good friends here, but especially you, Malcolm – you were so nice to me when I was making a cock-up of everything in the first few weeks and didn't know one end of the Grid from the other. I feel that I can always rely on you, that you'll look out for me. I meant what I said earlier on, about how rare it is to meet a true gentleman. You're a wonderful person. Thank you for bringing me home." And then she reaches over to kiss me on the cheek, a butterfly's kiss, the merest brushing of her soft lips against my skin, and in the next moment she has slipped out of the car with a little wave goodbye and says softly, "Good night, and sleep well – see you on Monday!" before entering her house. She crouches to scoop up the cat that has come to greet her as she opens her front door. Resting her head against the animal's sleek fur as the cat drapes itself over her shoulder, its paws kneading her shoulder with feline delight at her return, she goes inside.

I sit in the car outside her house for a few minutes more, reliving the moment of that gossamer kiss, and hearing the kindness in her voice as she told me that we were friends, nothing more, but also nothing less. The car is scented with her light perfume, which reminds me of a garden after rain. I touch the still-warm headrest of the passenger seat, as if to confirm that she was there at all. Then I touch my cheek, where her lips rested for less than a heartbeat, and then I start up the motor, flick on the headlamps, and move off, smiling all the way home. It's a start, I tell myself. And she thinks I'm wonderful! Each time I recall her words, some of the long-held pain inflicted by Sarah dissipates, and in its place is the memory of Ruth's eyes and her beautiful smile. _Malcolm 1, Harry nil._


	4. Chapter 4

From that moment on, Ruth is my first thought as I wake and my last as I fall asleep, I count the hours until we are back on the Grid together if we are working on different shifts, and I die a little inside, every time I see her light up in Harry's presence. She's nearly incandescent around him, and at first I can't believe how cool his behaviour continues towards her, until I look closer, painful though it may be. And yes, there it is. I can see it now, in the look in his eyes, as she leaves his office or the briefing room, in the way he stands a little taller and pulls in his stomach when they pass in the corridor, or how he hovers behind her chair peering over her shoulder as she pieces another intelligence jigsaw together, or the little quirk of his mouth as he listens to her during a briefing. It's his eyes, though, that really give it away. Normally, they are as fierce and as watchful as a hawk's, carefully hooded under his eyelids. Now, when he steals a glance at her, they burn, just the briefest of flashes, illuminating the green and gold flecks in his bright hazel irises, his pupils dilated as he drinks her in. If you blinked you'd miss it. I come to wish that I had, many times over. Harry might be the acknowledged spymaster, but I am every bit his equal when it comes to surveillance, and I have spent most of my professional life observing other people, working out their motives and intentions. Harry's intentions towards Ruth are unmistakable, even if he hasn't admitted them to himself yet.

For months I watch them waltzing blindly around each other, locked in a spiralling fascination with each other, but neither willing to make the first move. Ruth continues to be kindness itself to me, and even though I know her heart has been captured by the sheer force and charisma that is Harry, I live in hope that one or the other of them will grow tired of their slow dance, and that I might somehow be able to kindle her interest. Over time, I become her friend, even her confidante. She trusts me, enough to ask me to drop off some Registry files she wants to look over one weekend off the Grid. It's a rainy Saturday afternoon in November, the first time I visit Ruth's house. Surprisingly, her front door is off the latch, and she doesn't come to the door, just calls out, "It's open," from within, when I arrive. I step into the hall, and breathe in the scent of Ruth for a moment, before tracing her voice to the parlour on the right hand side of the hall. Her house is cold, and I think for a moment of my own comfortable, perfectly temperature-controlled residence. Ruth's salary is nothing to write home about, I know, but I find myself hoping that she will make sure her house is properly heated come winter. I knock timidly on the sitting room door, which is slightly ajar. I hear whimsical music playing faintly from within, so I push the door open cautiously, and am greeted with a charming sight.

Ruth is sitting on a long, old fashioned couch with her feet tucked beneath her and a rug thrown across her lap. This room is noticeably warmer than the rest of the house, and I can hear the radiator ticking quietly along the wall. A small black and white cat is curled blissfully into the crook of her knees, while another, larger tortoiseshell cat is sitting on the back of the couch and rubbing its head lovingly against Ruth's. _Lucky things,_ I think, as my gaze flicks to the television screen, which appears to be completely engrossing Ruth's attention. I recognise the scene as being from the old French classic, _The Red Shoes, _and I smile to myself as I see that Ruth has turned the BBC's foreign language captioning off. She doesn't need it; Ruth's French is perfect. Her head turns in acknowledgment of my presence, and I hold out the files to her; she takes them quickly, without ever meeting my eyes, and much as I wish she would invite me to stay, to join her in this snug room, her thanks is also a polite dismissal. I allow myself one last, longing look at the cosy scene, and silently slip out of the room. Ruth doesn't notice my departure; she has already opened one of the files and is perusing it avidly. There is something slightly furtive about her actions, something odd in the way that she didn't meet my eyes, and I feel a slight misgiving about having signed the files out for her. _Ruth, what are you up to?_ I wonder, as I slide back into the Rover and pull away from the kerb.

What she is up to, as it turns out, is nurturing a hopeless little crush on one of her routine surveillance subjects, a shy but accomplished man who sits on several important boards in the City. The following Monday, back on the Grid, young Sam, for heaven knows what reason, takes it upon herself to play Cupid, and using her not inconsiderable powers of persuasion, manages to convince Ruth to actually meet this man. I am appalled to learn that Ruth has actually shadowed him at lunch, booking herself a table next to his at Julie's (he does have good taste, I grudgingly admit) and even striking up some sort of conversation with him. Ruth would make a terrible field officer – she's too naïve, too direct, too lacking in the serpentine cunning and street smarts needed to survive. I am glad of it, because she wouldn't be Ruth, otherwise. The upshot of all this skulking about (as if Ruth could ever truly skulk!) is the discovery that the object of her interest has been invited to attend a scratch Requiem at St Martin's in the Fields, and armed with this intel, Sam is not taking no for an answer. If Harry Pearce used the same sort of high-pressure tactics with Ruth that Sam is employing, she would flee the Grid, never to return. The younger woman has feminine intuition on her side, however, and she finally, triumphantly prevails, producing a bound copy of Mozart's extraordinary choral score with a flourish and presenting it to Ruth.

When I see Ruth's hesitation dissolving, my heart sinks – _what if I lose her to this man with a bad knee and a passion for singing?_ and then, inspiration strikes – if you can't beat them, join them, as the saying goes. As it happens, I'm a passable tenor – I even sang in my College choir. With some rather overenthusiastic help from Sam, I offer to accompany Ruth to the Requiem in the guise of her brother, Giles, providing her with the perfect legend should the gentleman in question wonder how it is possible that he could run across the same woman twice in one day in a city the size of London. She agrees quite quickly, eyes sparkling with excitement, and I am both cheered and disheartened by her rapid acceptance of this mad proposal. Cheered at the thought of having a perfectly legitimate reason to spend time with her, off the Grid, and disheartened when I recollect the reason for the reason, so to speak. Harry once called her a born spook – high praise indeed from the master – and once she has the right cover, the right pretext, the right…_backup, _her whole demeanour shifts, and by the time I arrive at her home to collect her, she has thrown herself wholeheartedly into the spirit of things.

Ruth descends the staircase in a dress I have never seen her wear at work – white silk with a high collar, scattered with a print of scarlet roses, and a coat of ivory wool which makes her creamy skin glow in the soft hall lighting. She is breathtaking, and for a moment my powers of speech desert me altogether, as I watch her move down the stairs. Sam (_why is she here?_ a tiny part of my brain wonders) finally rescues me with her incessant chatter, talking over my awkward silence until I recover enough to compliment Ruth on her ensemble, in my best big-brotherly fashion. Finally, I gather my wits enough to escort her out of the house and into my car. I hadn't expected her to look like this, and I hadn't thought that this would feel so much like a date - a long awaited, much anticipated date. Well, one can dream, I tell myself grimly as I hand her into the passenger seat, smiling in response to her thanks, then I fold myself into the driver's seat and we set off for an evening with Mozart and one unsuspecting subject.

All week I have been wondering why she is doing this, when she is so obviously infatuated with Harry, and I wonder, too, what on earth has possessed me not only to convince her to pursue this foolhardy scheme, but also to agree to accompany her, in white tie, no less, to the lovely old church of St Martin's in the Fields. We arrive just in time to take our places in the makeshift choir – Ruth with the altos, me with the tenors. What's-his-name (Ffoulkes, Fortinbras, Fortescue – what difference does it make?) is already prominent amongst the baritones, but when he begins to sing I realise that he could easily pass for a bass, so resonant and rich is his voice in the lower registers. Mozart's music is glorious, swelling and soaring around and through us, and I see the shimmer of tears in Ruth's eyes during the _Lacrimosa, _that unbearably sad passage in which the ageless tragedy of human mortality is firstly defined, then transcended, and finally redeemed, through one man's infinite genius. I surreptitiously brush moisture from my own eyes as we sing on, through the _Offertorium_, the _Sanctus,_ and at last, the _Lux Aeterna_. Eternal light, I think, and glance again at Ruth, marvelling at how the music has transformed her face. Her normally solemn expression has vanished, and she looks radiant, her eyes shining, as she steals a glance of her own at what's-his-name. Finally, the last note is sung, the conductor thanks us and is thanked in turn, and the impromptu choir filters out towards the refreshment table. I collect a cup of tea, a damp-looking piece of cake with pink icing, which reminds me irresistibly of the church teas put on by the Ladies' Auxiliary of my father's parish, and retreat into a corner to wait, and watch. It's what I do, after all. Watch over the field staff.


	5. Chapter 5

As I am waiting, I try to formulate an explanation for Ruth's uncharacteristic behaviour; but try as I might, the only thing I can come up with is Pope's immortal line, _Hope springs eternal in the human breast_…I must be the biggest masochist in existence, I think, as I watch Ruth and her target make halting small talk over glasses of _vin_ extremely _ordinaire _in the nave, then leave together, walking out into the crisp London autumn night, nearly, but not quite, touching hands. My heart plummets to new depths as I contemplate what this means, even though I wait for quarter of an hour, just in case. Harry would say, never leave an operative in the field without backup. As I am gathering my coat and scarf from a pew at the rear, preparatory to departing alone, I hear Ruth's footfall behind me, and turn in disbelief to see her standing there, eyes misty with unshed tears. "Well, nothing ventured, nothing gained, isn't that what they say, Malcolm?" Her voice is shaky, striving too hard for nonchalance, but failing miserably.

In a quick, embarrassed movement, she dashes a couple of tears from her cheeks, her dark hair falling across her face as she does so. In that moment, all I can think of is comforting her. Hesitantly, I open my arms in invitation, and to my utter astonishment she steps into them and wraps her own arms around my middle-aged middle. And then Ruth Evershed does something no-one on the Grid has ever seen her do: quite simply, she goes to pieces. Safe within my embrace, her head resting on my shoulder, she begins to weep. We stand in the deep shadows of the ancient church as I gently draw her closer, trying to calm and soothe her as she soaks my best dinner jacket with her tears and heaves great shuddering sobs born, I surmise from the few words she chokes out, of loneliness, frustration and disappointment. With an almost childlike trust and need for physical contact, Ruth presses her body into mine from the knees up, and the effect of such sudden and thorough closeness almost results in a total abandonment of all standards of acceptable gentlemanly conduct, except for those long years of developing iron control over my thoughts and feelings.

That training is my saving grace, because the feeling of her soft body against mine is almost overwhelming. I am keenly aware of her breasts, rising and falling maddeningly with each sob, so soft against my chest; of the ends of her hair tickling my hands as I hold her close; of the silken texture of her dress; her delicate perfume, and underlying it her own, even more intoxicating scent; of the warmth generated by the closeness of our bodies, and of my own body stirring in response. I feel twenty years younger in an instant. My heart is pounding alarmingly fast, which in any other circumstance I would take as a sign of an imminent cardiac event of catastrophic proportions; but tonight I know that it is simply bursting with the indescribable joy of finally holding Ruth, of having her here in my arms, trusting me with her vulnerability and loneliness. I feel as if she is an inexpressibly precious gift, one to be cherished and treated with infinite tenderness.

As she cries, I find myself soothing Ruth in the Welsh of my early childhood, its lilting cadences and lyrical expression more suitable to expressing my feelings than everyday English – and I know she doesn't have Welsh, so I am free to speak all the small, tender endearments I have longed to say to her since that first meeting, more than two years earlier. My beloved, my only, my beautiful dark-haired one, I call her, among other things, and I hold her until she is still and quiet once more, the only sign of her recent upheaval the preternaturally deep breaths she draws as she tries to regain her equilibrium. Her body, still pressed against mine, feels nearly boneless now, worn out from the force of her emotional outburst, and she is holding onto me as if I am the only reason she is still standing. I never want to let her go.

Finally, her breathing is slow and calm again, and she tilts her head back to look at me, still maintaining our embrace. "I must look a fright, and I feel such an idiot, weeping buckets all over you like that, I don't know what came over me," she begins, shakily. I smile at her from a distance of about six inches, and say, "It's quite all right, Mozart frequently has that effect on me, too', trying to lighten the mood, and to my delight it works; I am rewarded with a small, watery smile, and her eyes brighten the tiniest bit. I am loath to break our connection, but I know that the church will shortly be locked up - everyone else has long gone - and I have no desire to be shut in for the night. Gathering my courage, I suggest supper at a cosy little place I know of, and to my utter amazement, she accepts happily. I assist her with her coat, and she tucks her hand through my arm as we leave, maintaining some of our recent physical proximity. I practically float out of St Martins and into Trafalgar Square with Ruth on my arm, and for the first time in nearly thirty years, I no longer feel prematurely old, full of caution and reserve, and resigned to a life of perpetual loneliness. In short, I don't feel the slightest bit like me; I feel, for once, as if I hold the winning hand in that great game of chance called life. _Malcolm 2, Harry nil._

Settled into a deeply upholstered and very private booth in an upstairs corner of a discreet French restaurant just off the Strand, we sit in a comfortable silence after our meal, with the remnants of our second bottle of Chateau Latour on the table between us. A routine check of the room reveals that we are the only patrons left, but we are in no hurry to go back out into the sharp coldness of the night. It's a rare quality to find in someone, that ability to just be, to inhabit silence with ease. Ruth has it in spades. Not for her a superficial stream of meaningless chatter. It's one of the things I love most about her; I find so much peace, just being in her presence. After a while, she smiles at me, her eyes sparkling in the candlelight. "Malcolm, when I was…when we…back there, what were you saying to me? I know I was pretty incoherent, but I don't think you were speaking English." I cough slightly, and look away for a moment to gather my thoughts. _How much to say? What to tell her? Should I take my courage in both hands, or draw back from the brink?_ Her eyes rest on me, waiting patiently for my answer. "Er, it's a bit silly, really. It was just a bit of Welsh, just something my father would say to comfort me when I had hurt myself. I hope you didn't mind?" She looks at me incredulously. "Mind? Why would I…? Malcolm, don't be ridiculous. You know how much I trust you, what good friends we are. I love that I can make a sodden mess out of your best dinner jacket, and not only do you let me, but you say nice things in Welsh while I do it", and she reaches across the table and gently takes my hand, turning it over to lie palm up as she traces the lines and creases with the index finger of her other hand, head bent in concentration. _Classic misdirection_, I think, even while my heart skips several beats at her touch. I try to put a coherent sentence together, and fail miserably. "Ruth, I…I must say something. I can't keep silent, not anymore, not after tonight," I begin, my voice sounding strange in my own ears.

She glances up at me through her lashes, the same look I have seen her give a hundred times to Harry, and I waver in my resolve. _Harry_. I had almost forgotten the third factor in this particular equation. They are both my friends, both my colleagues. I must tread carefully. She waits for me to continue, so I blunder on with, "I really don't think it's right to bring you any more Registry files at home. Even if it's for a legitimate reason. It only leads to situations like tonight's, it seems." Then I wait while she mulls this over, an odd little smile playing around her mouth. "Yes, I think you're probably right. It does seem to lead to situations. Like tonight's. Although this isn't so very unbearable, is it?" she concludes. In the next heartbeat, she is leaning over the table, drawing me into a kiss, her soft lips meeting mine in a breathtaking moment of delight, and then, as the kiss deepens, she suddenly draws back, her eyes huge and storm-dark as she says to me, "Let's get out of here. Now." I sit there, stunned, thinking I have upset her in some way, watching her gather her coat and bag, then she gives me the most direct look I have ever seen her give to anyone, and the truth of where this is heading begins to dawn on me. I can't get to my feet fast enough, can't believe that she might actually want me as I have longed for her, can hardly bring myself to think about all the permutations and ramifications of…of this, of us.

**A/N: Hardcore H/R shippers may wish to look away for the next couple of chapters...well, it's not as if they ever actually DID anything about it for all that time! And life is what happens to you when you're busy making other plans...(my thanks to John Lennon for that little snippet of truth!)**


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: Final warning for M-rated content...and for H/R shippers! **

So, for once, I don't. Instead, we head out into the brisk Autumn night air, hail the first cab we see, and I tell the driver to take us to a small but luxurious hotel, known for its absolute discretion regarding its guests (I had also personally debugged it a week ago for a visiting delegation from…but that hardly signifies – all that matters is that I know it to be clean in every sense of the word, and conveniently close by). We don't touch in the cab, which only serves to heighten the already charged atmosphere between us. When we arrive at our destination, I hand the driver a generous tip with the fare, and damned if the man doesn't wink at me with a knowing grin. At another time, I might have given him a piece of my mind for such cheek, but as it is, I nearly find myself grinning back as I exit the cab. I hear Ruth mutter something under her breath about "spook taxis" that sounds like a half formed thought, but I pay it no more mind as we enter the understated elegance of the hotel foyer and ask for a room, plus chilled champagne - Pol Roger, from a very good year indeed.

We nearly fall over each other getting into the room as I impatiently swipe the keycard through the lock, with Ruth pressed in between me and the door, her hands exploring beneath my dinner jacket in a way that makes me gasp for breath, her mouth curving into a smile as I kiss her again and push the door closed behind us with my foot, as she sets the champagne in its silver ice bucket on the bedside table. The room is opulently decorated in warm tones and the bedside lighting is dimmed. With trembling fingers, we divest each other of our outer layers, her coat and my overcoat sliding to the floor in seconds. We send our shoes flying into corners as we toe them off impatiently, then we stop and stand just inches away from each other, trying to adjust to the speed with which things suddenly seem to be moving. Ruth's fine skin has a rosy flush to it, from excellent French wine and excitement, and it highlights her eyes, which are huge and glowing as they did on the night that I drove her home. Her dark hair is loose on her shoulders and her dress both covers her with absolute propriety, and shows every curve. She is the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. "Are you sure about this?" I hear myself say, shakily. _Please let her think the cause is passion, and not sheer nerves_. In answer Ruth steps forward, reaches up, and slowly and deliberately removes my tie, then unbuttons my shirt with the same care. At the last button she looks up at me, says, "I'm sure," and my heart soars. _She's sure_..._how extraordinary! _ I want to pinch myself to check that I'm awake.

Every dream I've ever had of us has ended like this. But there is something to be dealt with first, something that might bring proceedings to an abrupt halt. I sit hastily on the edge of the bed, only just registering the deep softness of the goose-down duvet, as my legs seem to have given way at the thought, and she sits next to me, sensing the shift in my mood. I study the intricate pattern of the antique Persian carpet beneath my feet as I speak, in a voice so soft I can barely hear myself. Apparently Ruth is having difficulty hearing me too, because she leans in towards me as I nearly whisper, "I'm not…I don't…I mean, my fiancée was the only one, and that was a very long time ago…I don't want to disappoint you…but she said I'm not very good at…at this." I can't bring myself to look at her, sure I'll see the same look of disdain and contempt on her face that Sarah had once directed at me as she reeled off the bitter list of my inadequacies and failings, the myriad ways in which I had managed to disappoint and disillusion her. Ruth slides off the bed, and I think_, That's it, she's on her way out the door, why wouldn't she be,_ when I realise that she is standing in front of me. I risk an upwards glance, and see that she is neither contemptuous nor disdainful; her face is full of compassion and understanding, affection and kindness. She seeks out my hands and takes one in each of hers, holding them firmly as she speaks. "I don't believe that, not for a minute," she counters gently, "you're a sensitive, loyal, generous person with a very kind heart, and those are the most attractive qualities I can think of in a friend, or, or a lover." I look up at her, and my eyes must go wide in amazement, because she laughs and says, "As for the rest of it, I don't claim to be an expert either, but I think we'll manage to work it out as we go. Malcolm, let's just enjoy this."

And with those words, the world around me swims out of focus as she leans down to kiss me. For the oddest moment, I feel as though I am outside my body, watching us as I have so often had to watch strangers enact scenes just like this, from the safe distance of the surveillance van…

I see Ruth's eyes, pupils large in the subdued light, watching me, as her hands rid me of my clothes; first she peels off my starched white dress shirt, followed in quick succession by my vest, socks, and trousers. Next, she turns her back, lifting her hair off her neck in a graceful gesture to allow me to unzip her dress, which slides down and pools around her feet. She turns back to face me, still in her lingerie, and my breath catches in my throat at her beauty. I still can't believe it, that she is here with me, and doubt washes over me as the reality of what is happening sets in. I stand up, wrapping the duvet around me, and take a couple of shuffling steps away. I need to think, to look at the situation with a clear head. _This is all moving so fast_...Ruth's eyes cloud over as she realises the moment has passed, and self-consciously, she pulls the top sheet off the bed and drapes it around her shoulders, holding it tightly closed at her throat. "Malcolm?" her voice is small and uncertain as she approaches me. I take a couple of deep, steadying breaths, and say, "Why me, Ruth, and why now?" She stops short, staring at me in puzzlement. "I would have thought that was rather obvious…what are you getting at?" she replies, all her earlier boldness fast disappearing. "What I mean is, if Fortescue had asked you out tonight, where would that have left us?" Ruth frowns, a slight crease appearing between her brows as she considers her reply. "Am I some sort of…of consolation prize? Is this what all this is about? Or is it just that you're curious to know what it would be like, with a man of my age?"

Her swift slap stings my cheek –I didn't see _that_ coming!and then she is upon me like a Fury, eyes flashing, voice low with rage. "Bugger John Fortescue, and bugger you too, Malcolm. I went to supper with you because I wanted to, not because I was feeling sorry for myself, or for you. I liked the way you made me feel in the church, and I thought you liked being there with me, too. I thought there was something special between us…do you really think we'd be here otherwise?" Her chest is heaving in a most distracting manner as she gets her breath back after this outburst. _Oh, but she's splendid when she's angry! _is my last coherent thought, before events take an extraordinary turn.

We stare at each other for what seems like forever, but which must only be a couple of seconds in reality, and then we simply_ fall_ towards each other, tangling ourselves in our improvised draperies in our haste. We share an urgent kiss, and then she is pulling her silk slip up and over her head, eyes alight now with a completely different kind of passion. My heart races in anticipation…oh my heavens, there are her breasts! I touch them shyly, at first, and then with more ardour as the nipples blush deep rose and become erect, and as Ruth makes a small moan and embraces me closely, her hands running through my hair as we kiss, I know what to do next. I gather her into my arms, and carry her to bed, lying her tenderly on the crisp hotel linen and sliding in beside her.

My hands venture up her body next, finding tiny, sensitive places on her neck and behind her ears, as her noises of appreciation confirm, and the seashell scent of her growing arousal rises like incense around us. In reply, her hands swiftly rid me of my boxers, and begin to work their magic as she covers every inch of my skin with tender touches; and as for the little paunch that appeared, unbidden, sometime in the last ten years, or my thinning hairline – I no longer feel keenly self-conscious about these things, for Ruth simply accepts all of me, as I am. Her hands slowly move lower, to find that I am more than ready for her. She takes hold of me shyly, as I gasp her name, then growing bolder, she teases me for a moment with a slow, spiralling movement that nearly tips me over the edge, before she switches tactics and concentrates on tracing arcane patterns on my chest - crop circles and Celtic chevrons, by the feel of it, her fingers barely grazing my skin as they move.

I prop myself on one elbow and look at her, really look at her, as she lies next to me. Her skin glows ivory in the soft light, deepening to the colour of rich cream in the hollow places under her collarbones and at the base of her throat. She is made entirely of gently curving lines, her breasts surprisingly full on her small frame, her belly flat but soft, her back sinuous with tiny muscles flexing and flickering under the skin as her fingers move slowly from my chest, down to my stomach, following the faint trail of ginger hair bisecting my abdomen from the navel down. I venture to look a little further downwards, past the soft curve of her belly, and as I see the dark hair between her shapely thighs, my breath catches, and the rapid hammering of my heart makes me feel slightly dizzy. She reads the urgent need in my eyes, and she slides towards me, asking, "Ready?" and smiling encouragingly. _It's going to be all right, I'm going to be all right_, is my final thought before pure physical sensation overpowers my higher cognitive functions as Ruth obliterates my insecurities and my self-doubt, along with every awful thing Sarah ever said, when she begins to respond to me, drawing me deeper within her body, yet letting me set the pace in recognition of my inexperience. I try to hold out for as long as I can, for her sake, but when I begin to shake from the effort, she says simply, _Yes, now!_ Afterwards, I am spent, utterly, but to my surprise, she begins a little movement of her own, which becomes a compelling whole-body rhythm; then she says, with another very direct look, "I could do with a hand here", but I can only gaze at her blankly, too overcome with endorphins and euphoria to comprehend, so she deploys her own instead, increasing her pace until she suddenly stiffens, then arches her back with a cry like a wild bird, the sound of her pleasure almost stopping my heart with excitement; and I think that I may have quite possibly died, and gone to the heaven that is being in bed with Ruth. We fall asleep with her snuggled into my side, one of my arms wrapped around her shoulders, her head resting on my chest; I just manage to draw up the duvet over us both before happy exhaustion claims me.


	7. Chapter 7

During the night, I wake enough to realise that Ruth has turned on her side and curled away from me, and without thinking, I turn over and curve my body around hers; she mutters something I don't quite catch, but her mouth turns up in a sleepy smile as she relaxes into my embrace, allowing my arm to remain around her waist. I can't remember being this intimate with anyone, ever – sleeping together afterwards is something I have never done. Sarah had always left almost immediately after, on each of the few occasions I was able to persuade her to come to bed, leaving me to wonder what our married life would be like. Now, with Ruth sleeping quietly beside me, the long, empty years have fallen away, and I can glimpse a new future ahead, a future in which I am no longer alone, a future bright with the promise of sharing it with her. I drift back off to sleep, breathing her in.

When I next wake, with Ruth still in my arms, the quality of light coming in at the edges of the thick velvet curtains tells me that the sun is already high. I fumble for my watch and confirm the time – ten thirty-five am. It's Saturday, and neither of us are rostered on to the Grid. A whole day spent together stretches out in front of us, like the first day of school holidays after the long, grim Winter term. I chuckle at the thought, and the soft noise wakes Ruth. She wakens completely, instantly alert, as do most security services personnel if they spend long enough in the job. Rolling over to face me, she reaches up for a kiss, then stretches luxuriously, at full length, beneath the duvet. "Good morning, " I greet her, and she smiles her reply, then says my name in that soft, low voice, her eyes sparkling as she watches me haul myself into a sitting position amidst the many down pillows. "I don't know about you, but I could eat a horse!" she says, sitting up too, and holding the duvet close about her as she reaches for the leather-bound room service menu. Her eye falls on the ice bucket, now sitting in a pool of water on the glass-topped bedside table, the champagne still unopened. After some discussion, she picks up the phone and orders breakfast - eggs Benedict for me, a smoked salmon scramble for her, with tea (Darjeeling for her, Lapsang Souchong for me), followed by a request for a bowl of strawberries. And more ice, I note with interest. Next, Ruth wraps the top sheet around herself, and slides awkwardly out of bed, en route to the bathroom. I hear the rush of water running into the old-fashioned, deep tub, and hop out of bed to pick up our discarded clothes, blushing with pleasure at the memory of last night, folding them tidily into two piles. There are two ridiculously oversized, fluffy, white dressing gowns in the mahogany wardrobe, and I put one on, before tapping softly on the bathroom door. "I'll be out in a minute," Ruth calls. "Oh, there's no rush – I just wanted to pass this in," I reply, and the door opens a crack. A hand emerges, attached to a delightfully pink and well-scrubbed arm, and seizes the garment. Before I can glimpse any more of the hand's owner, the door shuts firmly. I stand there for a moment, lost in a happy reverie at the sight, until the discreet knocking at the door of our room heralds the arrival of Room Service with breakfast.

Tying my dressing gown more closely around me, I answer the door and take delivery of a wheeled breakfast cart with two silver cloches steaming seductively, a china tea service, a heaped bowl of small, sweet strawberries, and an insulated container of ice. Handing the waiter something for his trouble, I close the door and turn to find that Ruth has emerged, glowing, from her bath, wrapped in the oversized dressing gown, so big on her she has had to turn the cuffs back three times and tie an enormous bow in the sash around her waist. She pads silently across the thick carpet to open the heavy velvet curtains, and the late morning sunlight filters into the room, illuminating a small table with two balloon-backed chairs, next to the window. I wheel our breakfast over to the sunlit table and after a bit of shuffling about, arranging cutlery and pouring tea, we turn our attention to our food, and breakfast is eaten in companionable silence. Usually, breakfast on my mornings off is eaten with my seventy-four year old mother, so to have Ruth smiling at me across the table, pouring more tea for us both, or delicately hulling a strawberry before she pops it whole into her mouth, is nothing short of a miracle.

When we have both finished eating, I collect our crockery and stack it back onto the trolley, which I return to the hallway. As I turn back into our room, I see that Ruth has emptied the water out of the ice bucket and refilled it with fresh ice, nestling the Pol Roger deeply inside, and replaced it back on the bedside table. She is standing with her back to me at the window, admiring the splendid view of the river on a fine day, her hands tucked into the capacious pockets of her dressing gown, her hair gathered softly at the nape of her neck. The lines of her body are fluid, with no evidence of the fierce tension that so often grips her back and shoulders at work. As for me, I feel twenty – no, thirty – years younger, my body looser and stronger, all its little niggling aches and pains eased. Last night, Ruth rescued me. _That's the only word for it_, I think, as I walk over to her and slip my arms around her from behind.

Strangely, Ruth seems to be vibrating slightly, and at first I think she is laughing, when I realise she's humming to herself. It's a tune that tickles my aural memory; I have heard it somewhere, a long time ago, but I can't think where. "A penny for your thoughts?" I venture, and the humming stops. "Oh, you'd laugh if I told you," she says, "but it really was the only song that seemed to fit". I tighten my arms around her and promise not to laugh. "It's called the Unexpected Song – it's just something out of an old Lloyd Webber show, but it suits the moment, rather." I have taken Mother, at one time or another, to everything the wretched man has ever written – including Cats, _twice, – _so I suppose that's why the tune seems vaguely familiar. I'm curious to know why Ruth thinks it fits this particular moment, so I say, "Oh yes, of course…how does it go again?" She chuckles and turns around to face me, slipping her arms around my waist and tipping her head back to look at me. "I'm not singing it for you, I don't really remember the words, anyway. " But this is Ruth, and I know that she remembers _everything_. I wait, and after a minute she steps out of my arms, reminds me I am not allowed to laugh, and in her low, clear voice, begins to sing. I listen, spellbound, to the story of a woman who has finally, after a lifetime of looking in all the wrong places, fallen in love with someone who feels the same way about her; the song is her way of expressing her joy at this unexpected turn of events.

When the song ends, I applaud, and she gives me a sweet, shy smile, her eyes dancing with pleasure at my praise. "That was absolutely marvellous, Ruth!" She makes a little bow, one hand over her heart, but when she straightens up she looks directly at me and says, "The thing is, Malcolm, it's never so straightforward, is it?" I blink in surprise at her sudden change of mood, and take a hesitant step towards her. She closes the distance between us, rising on her toes to kiss me, her hands caressing the back of my neck, sending little shocks of delight down my spine, and then she leads me back to bed. This time, she takes charge, arching her body above me as we move together in mutual need and sudden desperation, as if we are about to be sent to our deaths, or to the opposite ends of the earth, never to see each other again. She is a _goddess_, I decide, as my body responds to her for a second time – _I never knew I could do that!_ – and at the same moment she climaxes, panting, and collapses onto my chest, limp from her efforts on our behalf. I see stars, galaxies, the whole universe standing still as we take our pleasure together, then everything goes dim as I fall asleep in an instant, still wrapped in Ruth.


	8. Chapter 8

When I wake, hours later, Ruth is sitting up next to me, the sheet pulled up under her arms, sipping champagne. In her other hand is her mobile phone. Her work mobile, the one I programmed and set up for her, the one I changed the ring tone on at her request. I struggle to both wake up and sit up at the same time, and once I am upright, she hands me the other crystal flute, brimming with bubbles. "Pol Roger, did you know it was Churchill's favourite…it seemed such a shame to waste it", she begins, "I hope you don't mind that I opened it – I love champagne, but I don't buy it for myself, it's really a drink for two," she pauses, inexplicably nervous, before blurting, "Malcolm, we have to talk." I grope for my own phone, and flip it open, but there is no red flash, no messages, nothing. I'm completely _compos mentis_ now, but I'm still scrambling to catch up with her swift analyst's mind, even as an awful hollowness grows in the pit of my stomach and my thoughts fly back over the last twenty life changing hours, if the pale twilight outside is anything to go by. Those words are the exact ones Sarah used to preface the conversation which ended our engagement. _There is no good which can come of this_, I think, and suddenly it is as if I am standing, blindfolded, at the edge of a precipice. I feel sick with fear.

Ruth draws her knees up, and wraps her arms around, huddling into herself. I touch her bare back lightly, and when she doesn't flinch away, I draw her towards me, tucking her into my side. I feel slightly better now we are touching. Looking straight ahead, she says in a voice so low I can barely hear the words, "This…us…it's a stolen moment. On Monday we have to go back to work, and it all starts again. The pressure, racing against the clock, dealing with the worst evil that men can invent…and being on the Grid, with the rest of the team…I couldn't bear it if they knew…" And there it is, the great, unseen, unspoken barrier between us. If Harry knew, she means. If she suddenly stepped out of their exquisitely painful _pas de deux,_ and declared that she was with me instead. My heart stammers in my chest as I consider my reply, aware that the wrong words now will fracture our relationship forever. And that's a thought that I can't bear; she means too much to me. "Ruth, look at me", I say, turning her by her shoulders towards me. She glances at me, her beautiful eyes bright with unshed tears, and I take a shaky breath before plunging in. "Here's how I see things. We were friends, good friends, before last night, and I don't want to do anything to jeopardise our friendship, because it means the world to me. If you feel that this can't go any further then I will respect that, even if I don't understand it…" my voice cracks and I stop, ashamed to continue, because all I want to do is beg her to stay, to choose me, and to forget about Harry bloody Pearce.

Ruth has been listening with even more concentration than usual, and she gives me a tremulous smile as she speaks. "Last night, I went out hoping to find a stranger I thought I was in love with, and instead I found you, and I'm so glad that I did. You're a wonderful man, Malcolm, and in any other world, in any other line of work, we might have had a chance to be together. But what we do, it's soul destroying. I've seen it chew up good officers and spit them out. Look what happened to Tom, once he lost Ellie. I couldn't bear it if that happened to me, or to you. " and then her shoulders are shaking and she is crying, and the stark, ugly reality of the life we have chosen comes crashing down around us once more. I remember Harry telling me once, not long after I had joined Section D, that a spook's best assets were their own self-control and self-denial. _Yes_, I think, _self-control and self-denial have been sadly lacking lately, and now it's time to pay that particular piper_. Releasing Ruth, and drawing a deep breath to brace myself for the betrayal which must now come, I drop a rueful kiss on the crown of her head, and in a light voice I say, "Ah well, here's to us, or rather to what might have been." Malcolm Wynn-Jones, man about town, is the effect I am trying for, as I drain my now warm glass of champagne in what is meant to be a devil-may-care gesture. I push the covers back and get out of bed, shrugging back into my dressing gown as I stand up, then make my way to the window to draw the curtains against the dark and the cold seeping in through the glass. As I walk back towards the bed, on my way to the bathroom, I see that Ruth is watching me with a look of sheer amazement. I steel myself against the hurt in her eyes and say, "I'll just dash through the shower, then it's all yours, unless you wanted to go first?" She shakes her head in mute astonishment, her eyes showing her shock at the change in me, and I go into the bathroom and lock the door behind me. I fiddle with the taps and levers of the bath plumbing until water comes rushing out of the shower rose, and step under the warm stream of water. I let the tears fall, then. I am so deeply in love with Ruth that anything, even this, is preferable to losing her altogether, but it was shockingly hard to leave her in that bed, crying. My heart feels like a dead weight in my chest, and suddenly I am very glad that I have Sunday off as well. I need to return to the dull familiarity of routine, to have some time in which to think things through. I decide I will spend tomorrow working in the garden, burning leaves perhaps – a melancholy sort of activity, to suit my mood.

When I emerge from the bathroom, she has gone. _I shouldn't be surprised_, I think, but the room which has been our sanctuary feels impersonal and empty now, and I hastily get dressed to leave. As I am about to open the door to our room, something catches my eye – a little red spot on the bedside table, next to the upended champagne bottle in its silver bucket. I look closer and see that it's a single strawberry, split into two halves, each heart-shaped half carefully placed so that they are nearly touching at the widest point, before angling away from each other. In the tiny space between each half, I see that Ruth has written something in the condensation formed on the glass table top by the champagne bucket.

Squinting, I can just make out the words – _I'm so sorry, _traced with a fine-tipped tool (a bent paperclip, perhaps?) in the misty surface of the glass. I sweep the strawberry halves into the ice bucket and use my sleeve to wipe out the message, the spook in me wanting to leave no trace of us behind. Ruth, with her love of symbols and codes, of ciphers and cryptography, has depicted perfectly our relationship as it now stands. Two halves of a whole, separated by regret, by the deceit which is our stock-in-trade, and by circumstances too circuitous to safely navigate together. Most of us are lone swimmers in a treacherous ocean, each making our own way to shore. _It will have to be enough_, I tell myself, as I swing my coat over my shoulders, then walk out the door. Humphrey Bogart, watching Ingrid Bergman leave Casablanca, has nothing on me, in the hopeless romantic stakes - hopeless being the operative word. _What was it that Churchill used to say about the champagne he loved? Ah yes. In victory, deserve it; in defeat, need it_. _Yes, indeed_, I think. _Yes, indeed._


	9. Chapter 9

**Mildly M rated... **

I spend Sunday as I have planned, catching up on Autumnal jobs in the garden – pruning back the spent raspberry canes along the back fence, preparing the Spring flower beds for their long winter sleep by mulching them deeply with grass clippings to insulate the dormant bulbs beneath, and everywhere, raking bright piles of leaves. They are too damp to burn properly, so I heap them into the old incinerator and leave them to dry into the brown crispness which makes the best sort of blaze, clear and hot and almost smokeless. I will burn them on Guy Fawkes Night, in a few weeks' time, I think, if I'm not at work. Guy Fawkes Night is a favoured time for those with an axe to grind against Her Majesty's government to attempt the grand symbolic gesture. Bomb threats, nearly always; a sniper stalking an unpopular, pro-Gulf war MP, the IRA rearing its ugly head – we have dealt with it all on Guy Fawkes Night. It must be something to do with the spirit of rebellion which the night celebrates, or perhaps it's just that the fireworks and bonfires provide good cover for those with nefarious purposes.

I try not to think too much about it, or indeed about anything, most particularly not Ruth. I work until the light begins to fade from the sky and Mother calls to me from the back door to come inside, the cold isn't good for my asthma, as if I'm still five, and not closer to fifty-five. I know she means well, though. I am beginning to feel the day's work in my back and my joints, and I can smell the enticing aroma of roast beef wafting into the chilly evening air. I tidy everything away into the shed, lock it carefully (it wouldn't do to leave a shed with sharp tools and dangerous chemicals unlocked) and head inside, pausing at the back step to ease out of my old green wellies and hang my old Barbour jacket and tweed cap on the peg inside the glassed-in porch. Sighing with relief to be inside, where it's warm, I tell Mother that I'm going to have a shower before dinner, and head upstairs.

Standing under the hot, streaming water, I can no longer shut out thoughts of Ruth, of us together, of her body arching over me, such a look of wild abandon on her face as … _that_ hasn't happened in a very, very long time, I think, as guilty and yet exhilarated as any teenager – one of the drawbacks of living with my mother is that I never feel free to do what any other man would do without a second's thought. I always have the sense, at the back of my mind, that Mother will somehow know what I've been up to. Of course, this sort of thing has never been an issue, until now. Fortunately, we each have our own bathrooms, our own suites of rooms to use, in this rambling old house on the Heath. It makes it bearable. Much as I love my mother, and I know she depends on me, I am glad for the odd hours I often work; being on the Grid increases my sense of independence. It's why I take most of my meals there – certainly it's not because of the food, which is mediocre at best. Stepping out of the shower (I hear Mother's voice calling me again to dinner from downstairs), I catch sight of myself in the mirror on the back of the bathroom door. I rarely, if ever, consult it, but some morbid impulse of curiosity makes me look now. I wipe the foggy condensate off with a corner of my towel and peer cautiously at my reflection.

Peering back at me, I see a middle aged man, looking taller now that I am standing up properly and not stooping, but even at my full six feet, I'm hardly a physically impressive sight. I don't have the lithe grace of Adam, nor Tom's formidable build; instead, I look like what I am, a desk spook. If I'm being fair to myself, my shoulders are square-set, and my work in the garden maintains my muscle tone. I don't carry extra weight, actually I'm quite lean, if one discounts the wretched little potbelly of middle age. At least it's not like Harry's much more substantial spare tyre_,_ I think unkindly. My skin is too pale from underexposure to the sun, but then I have Celtic colouring anyway – fair skin, blue eyes, rather curiously set, and reddish hair. Too little hair, now, and that's turning grey at a disheartening rate. I don't know how to assess the face that looks back at me. Mother says I have a good face, but whether she means aesthetically or morally, I have never ascertained. Perhaps she means both.

I look at my hands next, and feel happier. My hands are useful. I have my father's hands, long fingered, strong yet dextrous, ideal for the delicate manual work of a technical officer. I can't help but shake my head in amazement as I recall some of the new uses they were put to last night…Ruth tracing the outline of my hand as it rested against her belly, afterwards, like a child tracing her own hand on paper, then interlacing her fingers with mine, as she falls asleep. I again feel my fingers splayed on her hips as she rises above me, holding on to her for dear life as she drives us both towards oblivion; or the new motor skills she teaches me, later, as she explains the finer points of both general female anatomy, and her own particular pleasures. Consistency and continuity, it would seem, is key…

I can do that, I think. _Consistency, reliability, loyalty, total devotion… _yes, I can do those. But these qualities, apparently, are no match for the sheer power of her attraction to Harry, no matter how impossible or ill-advised it might seem. The air between them resonates with a low thrum like the humming of high-voltage power lines whenever they are together. The way they are around each other…last night was nothing like that, I have to concede, although it was shattering enough, in its own way. Reluctantly, I think back to the moment that it all changed, when I realised the strength of the hold Harry has on her. Waking up, to see her holding her phone, her thumb moving over the keypad, tapping out a message to him. As I had heaved upright in bed, I had seen that much, before she closed the phone and buried it on her side of the bed as she reached across to hand me the champagne.

Finally, I drop the towel, take a couple of steps back, and consider everything Ruth saw. Having been subjected to the sight of countless sets of other people's privates, whether I want to see them or not (and the answer is overwhelmingly _Not_) in the course of my work, I decide that mine are perfectly…_acceptable,_ if unremarkable. Harry is probably much more impressive in that department, but then, he's more impressive and accomplished than me in just about every way possible. Except one, I remind myself, and the reflection in the mirror smiles. "Malcolm! Dinner! Now, dear!" I hastily resume my towel at the sound of her voice from the kitchen. Next, I pad into my dressing room to pull on some clothes, before descending the stairs, as staid and sensible as ever, to join Mother at table.

**A/N: We return to the comparative safety of the Grid, next...no showers there! ;) Thanks, as always to everyone who is sticking with the story, and continuing to read and review. I realise this is not the usual Spooks fic, which is what makes writing it fun!**


	10. Chapter 10

When I walk onto the Grid at seven a.m. on Monday morning, Ruth is already in, going by the mug of tea steaming on the corner of her workstation, but she is nowhere in sight. My racing pulse settles down as I realise I am not going to have to face her first thing after all, until I glance towards Harry's office and see them, heads together over his desk, poring over what looks like thermal satellite images from this distance. Turning away, I move silently towards the tech suite to begin booting up my system. Colin isn't in yet, but I boot up his system too so he can log in as soon as he's at his desk. He sometimes arrives later than Harry likes, usually because he is checking a dead drop on the way into work. He generally cycles in in a bid to more easily traverse the ludicrously congested roads around the Embankment. In my view, it's a futile bid by seven-thirty a.m., on any weekday. Turning back to my machine, I key in the long series of passwords and security codes that enables me to have unfettered access to, well, just about anything, from the national CCTV network, to SIS satellites scanning the globe as they hurtle through space. There are several emails to attend to. The most important is from Harry, in his usual terse style, asking me to cross check current satellite intel with certain images captured some hours earlier. _See Ruth,_ he writes, _for further instructions. _

Right, I tell myself, go and see Ruth, there's nothing to it, and after all, we are colleagues. My accelerated heartbeat betrays my nervousness as I glance over at her desk, but she is nowhere to be seen. Other team members are beginning to arrive for the day now, Sam looking secretive and preoccupied, her eyes flicking to Harry's office – he is now closeted with Adam, no doubt bringing him up to speed on the satellite intel – I will have to get onto that, I realise, as a nine a.m. briefing reminder flashes up in the bottom right hand corner of my primary screen. Sighing, I get up to look for Ruth. Her mug is no longer on her workstation return, so I infer she is most likely in the kitchen, across the Grid and past the access pods. As I pass the entrance to the Grid, Colin comes through the sliding glass doors, and we nod to each other. I glance shyly through the kitchen doorway, and there she is, making a cup of tea, her back to the door as she mops up a spill on the bench, shaking her head at her own clumsiness. I clear my throat, as my words seem to have dried up _(…Ruth, wearing only a dressing gown, sitting across the table from me, pouring fragrant Darjeeling into her bone china cup…)_ and she looks around, blue eyes flaring with hope that fades away when she sees me. Damn Harry Pearce to Hell, I think savagely, and feel my chest beginning to tighten.

"Malcolm," she says, her tone cool and distant; for the first time since I have known her, I realise I have no idea what she is thinking. _A born spook, indeed. _"Er, Harry said you had some intel to cross check? Satellite images?" She nods and slips past me, keeping her distance as much as possible as she navigates the doorway. She leads the way, briskly, back to her desk, where she rummages in the detritus for a moment and unearths a folder with coloured images – SIS satellite thermal images, as I had thought – and hands it to me. "Harry wants up to date images and intel, on his desk, by 0830. He'll brief the team at 0900. Thank you." She speaks in her usual low voice, but with a clipped inflection I haven't heard her use before. It's unsettling, to say the least, this change in her. I hesitate by her desk for a second, trying to think of the right thing to say, desperate to put us back on a friendly footing, but she says again, "Harry wants that intel in an hour," and both her tone and words carry an implicit dismissal. I once heard a new administrative officer describe Ruth as "the boss spook's prize sheepdog, doing his bidding, keeping the rest of us in line" and now I can see how apt the description is (at the time I had been indignant on her behalf). I hasten back to my desk, glad to escape, and for the next hour I forget everything as I go to work, doing what I do best.

When I next look up, I notice that Sam is away from her desk, and that the blinds in Harry's office are closed. I think back over the last few days, recalling how instrumental Sam was in convincing Ruth to pursue contact with Fortescue, and try, unsuccessfully, to quell the small, uneasy voice which is whispering "_it's all a setup"…_ but for whom? I have seen it too often, for heaven's sake, I have orchestrated enough of them, not to know one when I see one. The idea is so anxiety-provoking that it triggers the clawing pains I have long associated with the beginnings of an asthma attack, and I hunt round for my inhaler. On the other side of the tech suite, Colin raises an enquiring eyebrow – _are you OK? – _and for a second I indulge the idea of telling him about my extraordinary weekend, before I nod and say breathlessly, "Too much fresh air yesterday, I think!" _Oh, nicely played_…_it's best to stick to the truth when telling a lie..._

Colin grins, and says "You'd better stay inside the cabin, then, the next time we take the booze barge to Cambridge," before returning to his coding; he is working on upgrading our server security, in response to a threat from - well, that doesn't really matter. After a couple of puffs of my inhaler, my chest feels better, but the niggling voice of worry hasn't stopped. Something is going on, I'm sure of it, as I see Sam slide back into her seat. She tosses a too-bright smile in my general direction, before turning to chat loudly with Danny about his weekend activities. _If only they knew what I'd been up to_… I smile grimly to myself and walk through my work area to the tech storage cage. I've been meaning to audit certain stocks of gadgetry, and this would seem to be the perfect time to slink in there by myself for a few minutes.

As requested, I attend the nine a.m. briefing, but have little to add to Ruth's incisive analysis, so I sit at the far end of the table and watch her glowing as she sits on Harry's right hand side, the second-most powerful position in the room. Harry agrees with everything she says, then gives the field team their instructions, while I doodle convergent and divergent fractals in the margins of my notebook and ponder the fickleness and frailty of human nature.

I decide to avoid further direct contact with Ruth for now, and it seems that I have ceased to exist, in any case, as far as she is concerned. The rest of the team is too busy to notice, or so I think, until Sam appears at my workstation a couple of hours later, eager to hear how Ruth's adventure went. I have to remind myself that she knows only that Ruth set out with me to meet Fortescue. The fact that we then went so far off-piste as to be skiing on almost virgin snow (so to speak) is something that must remain only between the two of us. I smile insincerely at the younger woman, and tell her something innocuous. I must have said enough to satisfy her curiosity, though, because she goes on her way, looking inordinately pleased with herself. I still feel uneasy, but of far more concern to me is the sight of Ruth's tense back and hunched shoulders, as she sits at her desk, bent over her work. She doesn't move except to look towards Harry's office, as regularly as a mother checking on her newborn. I feel the insidious worm of jealousy winding its way through my gut as I see her glance again and again towards the Inner Sanctum. It's as if this weekend never happened at all. And perhaps that's what she wants…turning away, I force myself to focus on the data feed scrolling down my screens.

I don't have an opportunity to speak with her, alone, for most of the day, and my anxiety increases exponentially as a result. I feel as if I have done something wrong that I don't quite comprehend, but that everyone around me is condemning me for. It's as if I am back at school, unsure why I am again the focus of unwelcome attention from the other boys, but prepared to do anything to avoid their scorn and derision. I am thoroughly miserable, and not even Colin's newly acquired stash of Bamboo Curtain-era Chinese bugs (from his morning spent deep cleaning the…but never mind) can distract me from my growing sense of foreboding whenever I see that small, hunched figure, studiously ignoring me. _Oh, heavens, what have I done? _I think, fighting off my growing sense of panic. _What have I done?_


	11. Chapter 11

Late in the afternoon, Harry asks me to help Ruth out with some research, which involves venturing into the dusty and dreaded Paper Archive (I have to be sure to take my inhaler with me, whenever I go in), but in the circumstances, I am very glad to get off the Grid and away from her presence. I spend a fruitful hour in my shirtsleeves amongst dusty boxes and paper files, glad of the quiet, slightly musty-smelling coolness which reminds me of the Scientific Periodicals Library at Cambridge. Ordering my research into a logical sequence is calming, and I become so absorbed in my work that I don't hear the door open behind me. Ruth can be as soft-footed as a cat, and when her hand touches my shoulder, my heart nearly stops altogether in shock.

I spin around to face her, shaking off that intolerably gentle hand as I turn, sending my neatly compiled papers sliding across the polished linoleum floor. Awkwardly, I scramble out of my chair, and feel better once I am standing up. I take a couple of steps back, putting some distance between us. I don't yet know what's going on here, but I want to meet whatever it is on my feet. "Ruth! You surprised me," I begin, my voice higher than usual. She smiles – the first smile I have seen from her today – and says, "I can see that. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to alarm you," and her voice is full of warmth, her eyes gleaming with gentle amusement. We could be back in the hotel room again, so changed is her demeanour now from her frosty mien earlier. She takes a step nearer, and my pulse rate escalates; another step, and she is standing close enough to lay her hand softly over my heart, palm flat to my chest, fingers splayed..._my heart is in her hands_, I think absurdly. I instinctively reach out for her; then, remembering her earlier baffling, hurtful behaviour, I take another step back instead, until the centrally placed table that runs down the middle of the Archive blocks my way. Her hand slips away, and a look of confusion passes across her face.

In that moment, I realise that she doesn't know what's going on, either, and that both terrifies me and fills me with foolish hope. "Ruth, what's going on? Have I done something to upset you?" I ask, in a slightly more normal tone of voice. She stares at me, then, anger flaring in her eyes, "Well, you did leave me crying my eyes out, but I suppose that's how you leave all your women," she snaps, then puts a hand over her mouth as if shocked at her own words. I blink in pained surprise, and counter with, "But you said we couldn't be together, that this job chewed people up and spat them out, and you didn't want that to happen to us. We're spooks, our best assets are supposed to be our self-restraint and self-denial. What else was I meant to do? And then today…I never knew you could be so unkind, Ruth." Her eyes haven't left my face as I speak, and I see all the conflicting emotions flickering in them as she listens. The air between us is tense; I finger the inhaler in my pocket uncomfortably, and force myself to breathe deeply, calmly, even though I feel anything but calm.

Ruth is silent for a few moments after I finish speaking, and then she nods, looking down at the floor between us, at the papers lying there. "I shouldn't have said that, about the job chewing people up. And I know I've been weird today…I was terrified that I'd give myself away, out there, in front of them all. This…us…what happened, is none of their business. I won't be talked about, Malcolm. I can't. I couldn't bear it. I've never done anything like this before, never become involved with a friend, or a colleague. I don't know how to be…" her voice gives way, and I see my opportunity. "I would never do or say anything to make you uncomfortable, and I understand that you want to keep your private life off the Grid. Believe me, so do I. Very much indeed." I push thoughts of Harry out of my mind as hope swells again in my heart. I can't help myself; I have loved her for too long.

She's here with me, talking to me; Harry is just a crush – the older, glamorous boss – a mere cliché – and if I can just hold her attention long enough for her to realise how much I love her, then I'm in with a fighting chance, or so I tell myself. Ruth smiles ruefully to herself, still looking at the floor, and then she steps forward until she is standing between my feet, barely inches away from me. She looks up through her lashes, and in her softest voice, she says, "We're a real pair, aren't we." I don't know what that means, so I ask, "Are we?" She moves closer, leaning towards me until her forehead is just touching my chest, her arms wrapped around herself protectively. I can feel the tension and hesitation in her, so when she straightens up to look at me, I fear I already have my answer. "Malcolm, can we just be friends? Or am I asking too much?" she wants to know.

My heart sinks, but I want to be part of her life in any capacity she will allow, and I am a very patient man. "Of course, we can be friends," I reply, and draw her closer for what I hope is a friend-type hug, before reluctantly releasing her. She beams up at me, her relief evident, and then laughs, pointing to the papers scattered all over the floor. "I really did give you a fright, then, I'm so sorry!" she chuckles, as she helps me to pick them up and sort them, then heads for the door. "I have to get back, Har..they'll wonder what's happened to me." I flinch internally at the sound of Harry's name, then hear myself say, "Ruth, you are allowed to mention our boss, you know". She nods once, eyes down, her hand already on the doorknob, and then she's gone. Why did I have to say that?

As her footsteps recede, I sink onto the nearest chair and bury my face in my hands as I try to get things straight in my mind regarding Ruth. We're friends, and that's all she wants, or so she says. But I've watched enough surveillance subjects in my time, and I can tell she's lying. She's lying to protect me, to protect herself, or to protect us, but she's still lying. I could feel her heart racing as I embraced her; then her breathing changed to short, shallow breaths, and she felt tense and tight. When she looked up at me, her pupils were enormous. In short, she was displaying all the textbook signs of arousal – or fear. Gathering up my research, I head back to the Grid, on my way to erase the last twelve minutes' footage from the cameras monitoring the Paper Archive. if I just loop it back and alter the time code, no-one will notice…or so I most fervently hope. No-one ever looks at the internal surveillance footage but me or Colin, anyway…_Oh Ruth, what a tangled web we weave, when first we practice to deceive._


	12. Chapter 12

A couple of hours later, I log off for the night, one of the last people on the Grid. Harry, as ever, is still working, with his phone pressed to his ear and an annoyed look on his face as he glares at his computer screen. Ruth is still at her desk, poring over the latest batch of satellite images, pausing occasionally to glance across at Harry's office. I pull on my coat and tell Ruth goodnight, not wishing to engage any further with her while Harry's about, but she doesn't look up, just nods in reply. I am about to go through the pods, when I sense someone standing behind me. Turning slightly, I see Harry, still in his shirtsleeves, face unreadable. "Walk with me a moment, will you?" he says in that unmistakable tone which brooks no argument, and leads the way off the Grid, towards the underground car park. He says nothing until we are in a blind spot in the car park – yes, they do exist, even in Thames House – and then he rounds on me. "What the bloody hell do you think you were doing, taking Ruth to that damn Requiem thing?" he growls, jaw set like an intractable bulldog's. _Oh, hell's bells. He knows. Of course he knows, he's the great Harry Pearce, and what he doesn't know isn't worth knowing, where Section D's concerned…how much, exactly, does he know?_

I stand stock still, reminding myself to breathe normally as I try to work out what's going on. Harry continues, in his most clipped tones, "It has also come to my attention that you signed out Registry files – on the weekend – and then took them to Ruth, at home." I blink, and then it hits me. _Sam_. Sam has been spying on Ruth. I can't believe that Harry has sanctioned this. Harry is glaring at me, now, and I realise he is waiting for an answer.

Willing myself not to blush from nervousness at being put on the spot, I reply, "Erm, well, this is a bit awkward. Ruth said she needed the files because she wanted to catch up on her static obs over the weekend. I didn't know what she wanted those particular records for, and it was only that I had mentioned that I was uploading some software upgrades on the Grid that she even knew to ask me if I would get them for her, and then it was such vile weather that Saturday, I was happy to save her the bus trip into Thames House…" a strange look passes across Harry's face when I mention the word _bus_, and I trail off. Oddly, some of his anger seems to have dissipated, and he sighs. "Ever the gentleman, aren't you, Malcolm? But that does not excuse your part in this…this balls-up with the Requiem. Ruth is not a field spook, nor are you, and this man, Foran, Forsythe…" "Fortescue," I supply –even though events appear to be going seriously pear-shaped, a tiny part of me is secretly amused at Harry's struggle with the name of the erstwhile object of Ruth's interest.

Harry is not laughing, however. "Whatever the bloody man's name is, he doesn't warrant this level of attention. He's a low-priority subject. What did she think she was doing?" Harry's glare is piercing, and I have an uncomfortable moment of insight into how it would feel to be interrogated by him. Drawing a deep breath to allay the tightness in my chest (damned if I'm going to use my inhaler in front of Harry – that would be a huge tell), I reply, looking him squarely in the eye. "I think she wanted to prove that she could do it – make contact, I mean, under a pretext, with a subject of interest. You know how much she wants to be a real spy, as she rather naively puts it. I went along to the Requiem to keep an eye on her, make sure she didn't get into any trouble. I thought you would rather someone was with her." Harry eyes me cynically, and then says, "I suppose you know she engineered some sort of lunch date with the man as well? Earlier in the week?"

I shake my head, thinking that little Scottish Sam has been most thorough in her betrayal of her co-workers. "Malcolm, after you picked up her attempt at sneaking secrets to GCHQ last year, I have kept a close eye on our Miss Evershed, and until now I have had no further reason to doubt her loyalty to the Service. But this…I can't ignore it, given her previous wobble. I'll have to have it out with her." There is something behind those words, and in his eyes, that makes me decide that I have had enough of this conversation. Quite frankly, I'm also feeling very uncomfortable that Harry has reminded me of the unwitting part I played in discovering Ruth's one and only, misguided attempt to be a GCHQ mole. I retrieve my keys from my coat pocket and walk away, out of the blind spot, muttering something about needing to get home to check on Mother. Harry nods and steps back, hands in his pockets, face shuttered. I am aware that Harry has chosen to let me go, while allowing me to maintain the illusion that I'm walking away from him off my own bat, as it were. I make my way to my car, and once safely ensconced in its familiar surrounds, I close my eyes and rest for a moment, breathing in the rich smell of old leather and polished wood. What a day. If this is what being more engaged with life is like, I almost miss my quiet, dull existence…almost. Harry's final words are still ringing in my ears… _I'll have to have it out with her… _I know he is referring to her perceived wobble in judgement, but quite suddenly, I find myself wishing he would have it out with her on other matters, too. Matters which affect me more than Harry could, or should, ever know.

I'm tired, so tired…my mind roams back over the day, and again I have the feeling that I'm missing something, somewhere. It is not a feeling I get very often, so I sift again through the day's events, looking for anything which might explain the sense of dread now churning in my gut. I shouldn't have fudged the Archive surveillance footage, of course, but nor did I want anyone to witness the conversation that took place between us. I relive it in my normally excellent memory, but with a more analytical than emotional focus this time. That odd little moment, when Ruth placed her hand over my heart…at the time I had been too caught up in visceral reactions to really think about it; but now it strikes me as distinctly strange, not like Ruth at all. In fact, Ruth has been not like herself all day… the coldness she had shown earlier, followed by the sea change in her behaviour in the Archive, and the haunted look in her eyes… The feeling that I am in a trap, which has yet to be sprung, returns. Again I try to recall each second of our encounter in the Archive, certain that the answer to what is bothering me lies there. And then I see it, or rather, feel it again – the slight change in the quality of Ruth's touch as her hand slipped away from my chest. Very carefully, I open the breast pocket of my shirt, and look inside, then reach across to the glove box and remove a pair of needle-nose tweezers and a tiny plastic ziplock bag. Using the tweezers, I reach into my pocket and delicately extract a minute slip of paper, and then I drop it into the bag and seal it.

Digging around a bit more in the glovebox, I find a magnifying lens which I sometimes use when working with our smaller bugs, and peer at the paper by the dim interior light of the Rover. On one side is printed the word, 'Gelert,' and on the reverse is a smear of what is almost certainly human blood. My own blood runs cold as I grasp the implications of Ruth's cryptic message. Every Welsh child knows the sad story of Gelert, the faithful hound of Prince Llewellyn the Great. I can still hear my father's soft voice, telling me the tale…

_In the long ago and far away time, there lived in North Wales a Prince called Llewellyn, and he had a palace near Beddgelert. The Prince loved three things well, and one above all; his beautiful wife, his faithful hound, Gelert, and his infant son, who was the pride of Llewellyn's life. As a boy, the Prince had raised Gelert from a whelp, and the two were inseparable companions; wherever one was, there too was the other. Together they had hunted all the beasts of the forest; the black-hearted wolf, the cunning wild boar, and the great red deer, and each had many times saved the other from danger. Gelert was fierce in battle, yet as mild as milk with his master; and each was to the other devoted. Now, as is the way of these things, the Prince's lady was in time delivered of a fine, healthy son, and at once the Prince showed him to Gelert, and bid the hound guard him well. _

_Some weeks after the birth of his son, the wish to ride out hunting in the fine Autumn air came strongly upon the Prince, and whistling up his hounds and his horse, he set out; but Gelert was nowhere to be seen; and no search of the stables and kennels could discover him. The Prince had a fine day's hunting, and when he rode back into the stable-yard, the truant Gelert came bounding to greet him, full of joy, but with his fur bedabbled and stained with blood. A cold hand seized the Prince's heart, and in fear he went swiftly to find his son, Gelert hard upon his heels. Upon reaching the child's chamber, a fearful sight met the Prince's eyes; the child's cradle upturned and empty, and blood upon the floor and the bedclothes. With a great cry of anguish, the Prince drew his sword and straightway plunged it into Gelert's side, for the treacherous hound had slain his son. The hound screamed in sorrow as he died, and from the far corner of the room, there came in reply a child's cry. The Prince found his son unharmed, and on the floor beside him, the body of a great wolf that Gelert had killed, for his master had bid him guard his son. The Prince, filled with remorse at his deed, never smiled again…_

Gelert, the faithful companion who was slain by his master for an imagined wrongdoing…and on the other side of the paper, Ruth's blood. Ruth's face looking up at me, tight with fear. Ruth, who is on her second strike with Harry, after last year's unfortunate and uncharacteristic lapse in judgement. "_I'll have to have it out with her…"_Shuddering, I remember the look on Harry's face as he let me go, and with hands that shake, I start the engine and drive off without even allowing it time to warm up properly, so discomfited am I. Ruth, Harry, and me… the Prince is easy – that's Harry, of course, the ruler of Section D. The only question now is who is the wolf, and who the hound?


	13. Chapter 13

For three days, nothing untoward happens. I begin to hope against hope that the whole incident has blown over, that the relentless cycle of life on the Grid has moved us all along on the endless tide of crises, ops, briefings and debriefings, meetings and technical challenges. Colin has been asking to take the lead more often on tech requests, and I am happy to let him. He doesn't get enough credit for the brilliant work he does, in my view, primarily because our fearless leader is a self-confessed Luddite; the finer points of the increasingly technical world we live in are lost on Harry Pearce, old Oxonian that he is. For the moment, I am content to fade into the background of the Grid, avoiding attention, doing the tedious IT jobs no-one else wants, but which leave me free to think. And there is plenty of thinking to be done…

If there's one thing I know for certain about Harry, it's that he always gets to the truth in the end. His methods sometimes make me feel squeamish, and as if the moral centre of the world has suddenly vanished; but they are effective, I'll give him that. Every time I see those hooded eyes, watching Ruth, glancing at me, my faint sense of hope that we have somehow navigated past the tricky shoals of the Fortescue affair (as I have rather ironically begun to think of it) founders on the rocks of deception and deceit – stock in trade for real spies, but rather new, and unwelcome, for someone like me. I have always been guided by my own sense of integrity, often to my detriment where others with a more….morally _ambiguous_ view of life are concerned, but damn it, I believe that some things are completely wrong, plain and simple, and that others are just as absolutely right. I know that sounds awfully simple, but it's just how things are for me. Or at least, it's how they used to be. Before Ruth.

As for Ruth, well, we greet each other on arrival at work, and say goodnight at the end of the day; when necessary, we collaborate on briefings or operations, and we maintain a polite distance otherwise. Truth be told, I am relieved to have some breathing space after the fierce intensity of the last week; I need to sort through things in my head, and put my world back to rights, after the topsy-turvy emotional rollercoaster ride I have been on. I think Ruth is relieved, too, that after her carefully coded message, I understand without the need for further discussion that we have been pitted against each other by our master. Harry is out for blood, and I have never known Harry to fail where meting out his particular idea of justice is concerned. And with his fondness for history and literature, he is well aware that vengeance is a dish best served cold…

Of course, underneath all the confusion and mixed messages, beyond the anxious apprehension of each day that passes where nothing happens, I still love her. How could I not? She is brilliant, the only other person I know who can crack jokes with me in Latin (or ancient Greek); she is beautiful, even though in the last few days the bones of her face seem to have become more pronounced – I do hope she's eating properly – and a wariness has come into her eyes which I have never noticed before. And she is Ruth; perhaps I am just a foolish old romantic at heart, but I would like to think that the weekend we spent together actually meant something beyond two colleagues reaching for each other in a moment of loneliness. I know, though, that the problem is bigger than both of us, and hath name Harry bloody Pearce.

On the fourth day after our strange encounter in the Archive, the axe falls. Mid-morning, Ruth finds me in my lair, tucked away in the far corner of the main server room, away from prying eyes. I am hard at work reverse-engineering a rather cunningly configured Chinese router (intended for military use, I suspect) which Colin has somehow obtained from eBay, of all places, when I hear her footstep on the reinforced concrete floor behind me. I would have known it was Ruth anyway – the light, garden-after-rain floral fragrance she sometimes wears wafts ahead of her when she steps from the human-temperature environment of the Grid, to the still, chill air which keeps computer servers happy, and their end users happier still. She walks into the room, pulling closed the double-glazed door behind her in an attempt to preserve the optimum operating temperature for the millions of pounds of high-spec machinery that keeps the Grid functioning, and makes her way through the stacks quickly.

As soon as I look up at her from my disassembling, my heart lurches in fear. "When?" I ask her, and through white lips she says, "Now." I nod and run a hand back through my hair, thinking fast. "Where? In his office?" is my next question, and Ruth replies, "Yes, I think so." She folds her arms protectively across her chest and I see a sort of desperate resolve settle over her face. I want to be sure I understand what is going on, so I clarify with "It's only a disciplinary hearing, then?" and the expression on her face at the word 'only' tells me both that very rarely in her life has Ruth ever been in any kind of official trouble, and that she has not yet glimpsed the bigger picture here. Getting a verbal dressing-down from Harry is the least of her worries, and the least she can expect, too. "Yes, it's_ only_ a disciplinary hearing!" she repeats in wonder at my insouciance, "Malcolm, I could lose everything – my job, my reputation in the security community, the lot. Harry's on the warpath about Fortescue!" _We'll be lucky if that's all he's on the warpath about,_ I think, but refrain from saying.

Sighing, I get up from the little workspace I have improvised amongst the stacks, and dig my hands into my pockets, adding, "Well, better not keep him waiting, then. No point in aggravating him any further." I sound a lot calmer than I feel; having spent a good part of my working life around people whose job it is to deceive and mislead must be starting to rub off on me somewhat. Or perhaps it's just that I don't want to give her any more cause to worry … Ruth studies my face for a few heartbeats, and I can't tell if she finds what she is looking for there or not.

Next moment, she has turned for the door with a softly spoken, "_Ave, Imperator, morituri te salutant_…" and in spite of myself, I find the corner of my mouth quirking up into a half smile. Only Ruth would quote Suetonius at a time like this…I reach out and give her what is meant to be a reassuring pat on the back, and reply with, "_Aut non_" – or not. Ruth takes a deep, steadying breath, sets her shoulders, and steps out of the server room with both our fates in her hands. I have to sit down quickly as soon as she is out of sight, and apply my puffer to alleviate the oncoming asthma attack now coiling iron bands about my chest. I would not, could not, ask her what her answers to Harry will be, and whether they will implicate me. Regard others' consciences, as I would my own be regarded in the power of others, as Milton would have put it. As for my own conscience, well, I suppose that's a matter between me and my God…once a clergyman's son, always a clergyman's son. _Now,_ I think, _would be a very good time to pray_…


	14. Chapter 14

**A/N: While there is a canon version of the disciplinary hearing which took place due to Ruth's actions regarding John Fortescue, this chapter takes only a few lines of dialogue from it. Enjoy!**

…And while prayer is all very well (and I don't deny that I have often had recourse to it; in this line of work, sometimes one needs all the help one can get), I also have faith in something a bit more immediate, a little more tangible…like the micro-bug I just planted under Ruth's shirt collar as I patted her affectionately on the back. It's a prototype I've been working on – even Colin hasn't seen it, because I carry it with me constantly. It's so small, if it were to fall off its target, it would look more or less (mostly more) like the butterfly clasp from a stud earring. Tiny, innocuous…and with a transmission range that bugs twice its size would envy. Ears only, of course, but the quality of sound is remarkable, if I do say so myself, for a device not much bigger than a grain of rice. Ruth will not be going into the lion's den without backup, if I have any say in it, although I have no idea what I would do if the situation suddenly required intervention.

I know, oh, how well I know, that I am not a courageous man; I don't have Adam's reckless, devil-may-care abandon in the face of danger, nor Tom's self-belief and steadiness, nor yet that practiced self-control and ability to accept high-stakes risk calmly, which makes Harry the head spook. And as for the women in our section – they are all quite, quite terrifying in their fearlessness under fire. I am so ashamed of my quailing heart when compared with this company of warriors. Coupled with my asthma, it's why I'm Section D's mild-mannered Geek-in-Chief (yes, I know they call me that), and not a dashing field operative.

Now, however, is a time for action – and bravery on someone else's behalf is always easier, I find. I slip out the back door of the server room and into one of the labyrinthine back corridors that riddle Thames House like a particularly paranoid rabbit's warren, and pull my mobile phone out of my coat pocket. With a bit of jiggery-pokery, I have found a way to turn the mobile handset into a receiver for the micro-bug, and with a bit more of that tech stuff that I do (as Harry sometimes, rather dismissively, calls my work) I have worked out how to make the bug's transmissions look like nothing more than a standard mobile phone carrier signal. Not completely foolproof, of course, but counter-surveillance would have to know just what to look for – and how can they look for something they don't yet know exists?

I step across the corridor and through a service door that leads to the HVAC plant room for the Grid. I quickly don a tiny pair of canal earphones in order to hear better above the low whumping of the air-conditioning plant, jacking them into the phone just in time to hear Harry instruct Ruth to sit down. I frown – the transmission should be less muffled than this, from Harry's office, but it sounds as if the transmitter is operating right on the edge of its viable range. There's an echoing quality too, as if the bug is capturing sound in a hard-walled space, not the plush surrounds of Harry's office…

"Why are we down here, Harry?"

Silence, broken by the scraping of a chair on concrete.

"Is this some sort of attempt at scaring me into realising how serious this is? "

"I will be asking the questions today, Ruth." Harry's voice, with an edge to it Ruth has never heard – but which I am all too familiar with, from recording countless interrogations with suspected terrorists and other undesirables.

I feel ill as I realise they must be in one of the interview rooms hidden deep within Thames House, all reinforced concrete walls and uncomfortably low temperatures. _What the hell does Harry think he is doing? _I close my eyes to concentrate more closely on what I'm hearing, and my chronically overactive imagination paints a vivid picture…

_Ruth faces Harry across a table welded to the floor, perched on a chair which is deliberately too low and too small. Harry, in overcoat and black gloves, the single overhead light in the room illuminating him from behind, casting a huge shadow towards Ruth, his face immobile as he stares at her. Ruth, nervous, is fiddling with her necklace, perhaps, or turning her bracelet around and around, her blue eyes huge and almost translucent in the harsh light as she tries, and fails, to hold that implacable gaze… _I fight back the waves of nausea that are rising within me at this scenario, and listen as if my very life depends on it…

"Do you know why you're here today?" That flat voice, devoid of all expression…I shiver involuntarily.

"Yes, of course I know. I have erred, and now I must repent._ Mea culpa." _Ruth's voice, lower than usual, but surprisingly steady.

"This would be the second time that your errant ways have come to my attention, Miss Evershed."

More silence.

"Perhaps my faith in you was misplaced, after all. This is a huge breach of trust, Ruth. Of my trust in you as an employee, of the public's trust that the civil servants paid to ensure their security are doing just that, and of Mr…_Fortescue's_ trust that his privacy will not be invaded any more than is strictly necessary by Her Majesty's security services."

A long pause, then Ruth, sounding only slightly contrite, "I'm very sorry, I don't know what came over me. I won't do it again."

"You were very sorry last time too. Oh yes, Tom told me how sorry you were. The question is whether I feel inclined to allow the possibility of there being a next time."

"Yes, I expect that he would have told you. He was very good about it, talked to me on a park bench in the sunlight, and showed a degree of tolerance and understanding which I was very grateful for. I've been one hundred percent loyal to Five ever since. I still don't know why this discussion had to take place in here, without an observer present, either… it's not as if I am a security risk to the nation, after all. I made a mistake, got too nosy about a surveillance subject, saw him twice, nothing happened, end of story." I am surprised at Ruth's tone of voice – far from being meek and mild, or quaking in fear, she is beginning to sound…_irritated!_

"As to whether you're a security risk or not, I'll be the judge of that."

"Harry, are you seriously sugg…" there's a crackling sound, possibly Ruth's metal hair ornament contacting the bug, then Harry's voice, louder than before, talking over her.

"…question me? Who do you think you are? You're an analyst, your job is to think, to interpret, to predict, not to go mooning after strangers we just happen to have some intel on. What if this had gotten out? Fleet Street would have had a field day, we would all have been put under the microscope, the FoI* lot would have been baying for your blood…it was incredibly selfish, a flagrant breach of protocol, and to top it all off, you dragged Malcolm into it as well."

Silence, during which I can almost hear Ruth thinking as I hold my breath in shock, then she says in a miraculously normal voice, "Malcolm offered to go with me; I hardly think I dragged him into it. And it's not as if we went to some den of iniquity, we went to a church. To sing." Ruth's voice is beginning to rise too…

"Should I be expecting to see some fraternisation request forms on my desk, then? It certainly sounds as if you have been somewhat…socially active…lately. Lunch dates with a surveillance subject, choir outings with Malcolm…what else have you been up to, Ruth?" I can't breathe…we're on dangerously thin ice now. Silence…she's waiting him out, I think in awe.

Harry sighs, a long whooshing noise. "While we're at it, then, about Malcolm" – my heart nearly stops – "be careful, Ruth. I've seen how he looks at you. Be kind to him, won't you? He's made of finer stuff than some of us…" A rustling noise – Ruth, nodding her head, I think dazedly – and then she launches her counter-attack.

"It's this job, Harry, it takes over your life and consumes you, and most of the time we're too busy stopping horrific things from happening to think about ourselves, but every now and then, just for a moment, I recall that I'm more than just another watcher on the wall, and I wonder what it might be like to go out for an evening in pleasant company, or to share a meal with someone who is not my cat…or don't you remember what that's like?" Yes, she is definitely getting annoyed; I marvel at her unforseen courage, even while holding my breath in agonies of suspense.

Harry replies, in a forcedly calm tone of voice. She's getting to him, I realise. _Oh, Ruth…_

"Regardless of whom you choose to take your meals with, there are certain risks inherent in our work, Ruth, and I have to be certain that you're not going to go off-piste again, if I let you stay on. I can't afford to have an intelligence analyst whose mind is not on the job. If we're not on the ball, people will die…"

I hear a chair scrape back suddenly, then a thudding noise which for one awful moment I think is the sound of a body falling to the floor, before realising it was just the chair, overturning as Ruth gets to her feet precipitately, if the noisy rustling of her clothing is any indication.

"People will die? _People will DIE?_ If we ever look the other way for a single second, then people will die? Well now I understand what drives you, Harry, what an enormous burden must be on your shoulders…the whole weight of the world, and everyone in it. My god, do you think I don't know the risks of this job? Why else do you think I might look for a life outside of Thames House?"

In spite of the seriousness of the circumstances, I can't help but think, _She's magnificent_, as I listen to Ruth fight like a she-wolf at bay to preserve the status quo for all three of us.

"All I'm saying, Ruth, is that you need to keep your work life and your private life separate. Apart from vetting your fraternisation requests, the Service doesn't care what you get up to when you walk off the Grid." Harry's voice now sounds tight. To anyone else, he would sound angry; but I have been listening to Harry's disembodied voice, in all its timbres and textures, for years, and I can hear the pained frustration behind his deep and measured tones.

"Well I can't, Harry, my work is my life, on or off the Grid. They're inextricably entwined." Ruth, quieter now, but still simmering.

"Un-entwine them, then. It's that simple. Work here, life there." Harry, sounding as if he has had enough now.

A short silence, then Ruth's footsteps, and she says in a tone perhaps more bitter than she intends, "Simple. Yes, it must be simple, if you've been doing it for this long. Or perhaps it's you who are simple, to think that human beings operate like that. And you're a hypocrite, too, telling me off for misusing access to information... damn it, you could have just asked me what was going on, but instead you turned it into an operation…I'll never trust Sam again, you realise, don't you?"

Harry, now using a positively conciliatory tone of voice: "Finished?"

Then Ruth, heatedly," This whole process has been a shambles. I don't know what happened to you, Harry, but you've got a heart of stone, if you think people can just turn their emotions on and off at will." The door slams, and I take my first proper breath in what feels like forever.

And then it occurs to me that I can still hear Harry. The bug must have fallen inside the interview room as Ruth stormed out the door. I can hear him breathing as if he has been running hard, getting himself under control, then he sighs heavily, and says sadly, "Not stone, Ruth. Far from it." There is another, painful sort of noise, like a ragged intake of breath…and then I come out of my spellbound trance, and turn off the receiver.

I have no wish to intrude on Harry's privacy; bugging a conversation between colleagues is bad enough, but I will not torment myself by listening to the sound of Harry's regret. Not when he has just spoken so kindly of me to Ruth, and put me to shame for all the jealous thoughts I have been entertaining towards him recently. His generosity and insight only make it harder for me to admit that he has a connection with Ruth that I will never have – even the few seconds of dead air that I listened to held a charge that spoke of the tension between them, crackling like electricity rising up a Jacob's ladder.

The main thing, though, is that Ruth has managed to deflect Harry's attention away from me – _from us _– for the time being. I will never cease to be amazed at how a lion's courage can be found in the most unassuming mouse. I have seen it a thousand times before on operations where civilians become unavoidably involved for one reason or another, and must rise to the challenge. Some do so with more success than others, but none has exhibited the sheer audacity I have just witnessed in Ruth as she went on the offensive. To bluff and feint as she did, around an old master like Harry… it was breathtaking, literally.

As I slump in relief against the wall of the plant room, a hundred different thoughts race through my overstimulated brain, but two are uppermost. _The mind is its own place, and in itself can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven – _my beloved Milton, of course, in reluctant sympathy for Harry – and the other is_ Ave, Ruth invicta – _Hail, unconquered Ruth!

**A/N : *FoI – Freedom of Information campaigners.**


	15. Chapter 15

When I finally arrive home that night, it is to a house in darkness – Mother must have gone to bed hours ago. I am starving, and worn out from the stress and tension of the day. Peering tiredly into the refrigerator, I quickly put together a cold collation – a few slices of applewood smoked ham, some strong Welsh farmhouse cheese, a handful of Bath Olivers and a pot of Fortnum's Coronation chutney, before collecting a nice bottle of Chevalier de Lascombes from the cellar, and carrying the whole lot upstairs. I would usually eat in the kitchen, but tonight I feel the need to surround myself with music, music that will transcend my soul and soothe my spirit, which is in sore need of both, after recent events. I head straight to my rooms, and after a longer, hotter shower than usual, I retreat into my own inner sanctum – my music room.

I love my music room; it is small, but perfectly formed, equipped with the best high-fidelity system that money can buy, and absolutely soundproof. There is only one article of furniture in it – a sleek black Eames lounge chair and matching ottoman (although technically, I suppose that's two), carefully placed for optimum acoustics. There are no windows, and minimal lighting. It's almost like a sensory deprivation tank, except that it is designed to refine and maximise the auditory experience. It is the place in which I feel safest, my escape from the ugly realities of the work we do, and from my own fears and loneliness. No one but me ever sets foot here. I even clean it myself, so loath am I at the idea of anyone else entering it. It is my own little private piece of heaven on Earth.

I search through my DTS CD collection, rejecting Mozart (all of which is now forever associated with Ruth), Bach (a personal favourite for his mathematical precision and order, but not what I am looking for tonight), Handel (too bright), and Rachmaninov (too heavy) before settling on Beethoven's Seventh. Beethoven truly understood what is to be human, with all the attendant joy and sorrow of our mortal condition, and tonight I crave to understand and be understood. Settling into my chair, balancing my plate on my pyjama-clad middle, I hit the Play button on the remote and close my eyes in bliss as the opening bars begin, slowly at first, gathering tempo, then falling back, the woodwinds leading the strings at first, as I am surrounded by the beauty of Beethoven's vision of balance and grace, transformed into sublime sound…

Somewhere around my third glass, I decide that of all the instruments in the orchestra, I am most like a bassoon. The bassoon is such an old-fashioned instrument, a little odd looking, perhaps not to everyone's taste, but capable of producing such a sweet and mellow sound, so steady and_ reliable…_not an instrument which is not very often featured in the orchestra, but one whose contribution would be missed if it were not there…the violin, of course, reminds me of Ruth – I believe she actually plays both the violin and the piano, although where she would find the time for either nowadays is beyond me. The violin, queen of instruments, with all the beauty and flexibility of the human voice, but needing a maestro's delicate touch to truly animate its soul…the music swells and shifts into the_ Allegretto_, the change of key into A minor bringing a dramatic tension to the music which reminds me of the three of us today, during Ruth's hearing. I pour another glass of wine and contemplate the acoustic baffles on the ceiling as I recall the day's events.

The relief that I felt immediately afterwards was soon tempered by the realisation that neither Ruth nor Harry must ever know that I was an unseen witness to their exchange. I must be careful to act as if I know nothing about it at all, instead of the warts-and-all reality. I had not had an opportunity to speak with Ruth for the rest of the day; she had taken an uncharacteristically long lunch hour, and for once left on time, without so much as once looking in the direction of the inner sanctum. I had deliberately avoided her, not wanting to draw Harry's interest; he had been like a bear with a sore head after leaving the interview room, and everyone had felt the strength of his displeasure as he voiced his annoyance with all things Section D. People assumed he must have had a particularly unpleasant meeting with Guy Facer, or perhaps with Oliver Mace, and thought no more of it; only Ruth and I knew the truth, and we were each keeping that knowledge to ourselves.

I can only hope that Ruth will see fit to tell me herself what the outcome was – I know that Harry would no more tell me about his private dealings with staff, than program his own DVD player (as Colin can attest). Harry's telling little comment after Ruth had exited the interview room has preyed on my mind all day. If I had been hoping to gain incontrovertible proof of the man's feelings about Ruth, then I have succeeded admirably. But, as Classical literature repeatedly teaches us, the seeds of one's own destruction are frequently sown in one's success, and I cannot escape the guilt that washes over me as I recall the banked-up heat of their interplay, the passion in Ruth's voice as she stood up to Harry, and the muted sadness in his voice as he tells his innermost thoughts to a cold, empty room. I had gone there, later, to retrieve the fallen micro-bug, and had found it just inside the entrance to the door, crushed. Whether by accident, or design, I cannot say, but Harry had trodden on it on his way out. Weeks of painstaking work, gone like that. I almost wish I had never devised the wretched thing, but as my father used to say, nothing is ever wasted in the grand scheme of things, and I already know that I will rebuild that design, refining it until it attains operational perfection. It had performed far better than I could have hoped for, under the circumstances…and on the subject of performances, I am still in awe of Ruth's fiery turn in the interview room.

Ruth had refused to be intimidated; she had told Harry exactly what she thought of him (thereby going boldly where many an angel would fear to tread) and she had protected us both from Harry's ire, or jealousy…or worse. I can't get that odd little comment from Harry – _be careful, Ruth. I've seen how he looks at you. Be kind to him, won't you? – _out of my head. I will have to be much more careful, I tell myself; I had assumed that no-one ever pays me much attention, but I had made the critical error of underestimating Harry. Others before me who had done so were no longer alive to contemplate the error of their ways, much less from a very comfortable chair while listening to Beethoven, so I pour myself an almost unprecedented fifth glass on the strength of that cheery thought, and slide a bit further down in my chair, tipping my now-empty plate onto the floor as I do so. The galling thing, as well as our saving grace, is that the truth of the matter has not yet dawned on Harry. I pray that it never will…

I know that not for one moment would he consider me to be a rival in romance; he just wouldn't think I had it in me – poor, shy, geeky, awkward Malcolm. Not so Harry – decisive, confident, bold, masterful Harry, leader of men, lover of women. Or, to be more accurate, of one woman in particular, it seems…his lonely voice, at the end, haunts me. I wish I hadn't heard that, because it makes it so much harder now. When I had believed that the interest was mainly on Ruth's side, and that Harry for professional reasons was choosing to overlook it, I had felt that it wasn't beyond the realms of possibility for me to win her affections, given world enough and time…but now I could see that it wasn't '_Time's winged chariot drawing near'_ that might put paid to my fondest hopes, but the soft-footed tread of my boss and friend. I drain my glass and heave myself unsteadily up from my almost recumbent posture, methodically shut down the various components of the custom-built sound system, wondering vaguely why the LED displays are blurring as I try to focus on them, and take myself to bed, the last lines of Marvell's elegant poem running through my overtired brain:

_Rather at once our time devour  
Than languish in his slow-chapt power.  
Let us roll all our strength and all  
Our sweetness up into one ball,  
And tear our pleasures with rough strife  
Thorough the iron gates of life:  
Thus, though we cannot make our sun  
Stand still, yet we will make him run._

As my head hits the pillow, my final thought is that Ruth and I have already twice torn our pleasures (although perhaps without rough strife) from each other, and with the memory of her in my arms, curled up against my body, I fall asleep, to dream uneasy dreams fuelled by too much late night wine and cheese, of Ruth and Harry alone in a room I cannot reach, with Beethoven playing madly in the background while they argue with each other and I try frantically to improvise a bug out of old bits of stereo equipment which keep slipping from my shaking hands...I wake with a stifled cry, and turn over, seeking a cooler sleeping position, pushing the duvet over onto the other side of the bed, a bed I have never shared with anyone else, but which now seems to my alcohol-fuelled imagination to be filled with her. I drift off to sleep again, and now my body's memory takes over my dreams. Her bare back, curved against me as we sleep…her hair, spilled across my chest like a skein of finest silk; the look on her face, that final time together…the feeling of completion, of finding something I have been searching for all my life, as our bodies met…the peacefulness, afterwards…_incredible!_

When I wake at my usual hour, despite my somewhat foggy head, I have absolute clarity on two things. One is that sensibly or not, I love Ruth, and she must have feelings of some sort for me, to have been with me in the first place, and then to have borne the brunt of Harry's disapprobation over the Fortescue business…yes, there must be something there. Something she might not even be aware of yet, but there nonetheless; and two, I'm not going to let her go without a fight_. Carpe diem,_ indeed.

**A/N: the poem, if you are wondering, is Andrew Marvell's **_**To His Coy Mistress.**_** If you haven't noticed already, Malcolm reads. A lot.**


	16. Chapter 16

**A/N: This chapter refers to ep 3.6, the Agent X trial, to place it in the canon timeline. **

The next few weeks are even more hectic than usual on the Grid, as the matter known to the public as the Agent X affair, and to us as losing Zoe, takes precedence over everything else. _ Zoe_. None of us can quite believe it; she's a magnificent field operative, beautiful in a blonde, willowy, way, clever and perceptive and as brave as a lion, and suddenly, she's gone, thanks to a show trial designed to appease a police force livid at the loss of one of its own, and a public stubbornly calling for greater accountability from Her Majesty's government.

Greater accountability, indeed. How do they expect us to preserve the status quo, day in, day out, if we are forever being scrutinised and called to heel by our political masters? I don't know, I truly don't, how Harry manages to sit in meeting rooms with the grey men of Whitehall, listening to their rhetoric and cant. I couldn't bear it, and am thankful that Harry does not need me to attend the trial. Instead, he takes Ruth, and I don't begrudge him her steady, calming presence and sensible counsel. She's exactly the person I would want at my side under the circumstances. I have to content myself with seeing her very little, over the days of the trial, and then only in company with Harry. She is quiet, but her eyes speak volumes about her fears for Zoe; finally, over a hastily snatched cup of tea in the staff canteen, she tells me that the trial is not going well; Harry is beside himself with worry, and the courtroom is far more hostile than any of us could have anticipated, the visitor's gallery full of the dead police officer's brethren and the tabloid press.

I long to take her hand, lying on the table between us, and tell her that everything will be all right, but I know better than to try and placate her fears with platitudes. Instead, I listen with my whole attention, and as Ruth unburdens herself, I see tiny signs in her – her facial muscles relaxing slightly, her hand unclenching from the fist it has formed as she speaks of Harry's anger with the country which is now condemning Zoe for doing the job she was trained for, her shoulders dropping into a more neutral posture – that talking is helping. I wish there was something more that I could do, but there are limits to what even the most brilliant geek can fix, and rigging a trial is really not my style… All too soon, Harry comes to find her, and she is swept away in his wake, back to Court.

Danny attends the trial too – wild horses wouldn't stop him, and Harry is wise enough not to try. I really feel for Danny; he and Zoe have been inseparable since joining Section D, and their friendship has been inspiring to watch, forged in adversity and intrigue, and only becoming stronger as a result. The last few months, though, have been testing ones for Danny, after Zoe met her…well, significant other, I believe, is the term in common use nowadays. I have known for some time that Danny's interest in her was more than platonic…it takes one to know one, after all, and the air of frustrated sadness which surrounds Danny whenever Zoe mentions her boyfriend is almost palpable. I have to admit, at one point a couple of years back, I took rather a shine to Zoe myself…a short-lived fancy, once I realised that she didn't see me, at all. Oh, she saw Malcolm-the-geek, or Malcolm-the-voice-in-her-comms, all right, but she didn't see _me_. Her life was so taken up with Danny, and Tom, and Harry, and Adam, and with being in the field, that there didn't seem to be any room for anything or anyone else, until she met her Mr. Right, and her normally bright personality was transformed into an incandescent one. She quite literally glowed with happiness, the morning she told us she was engaged. I am ashamed to say it, but I felt a quite irrational twinge of jealousy at her happy news, and then I saw Ruth's wistful face, looking at the bouquet of orchids which Zoe's intended had sent, and had to turn away, or risk giving myself away altogether. I suspect that my face might have looked rather like Ruth's…

Danny took the news hard, of course, even though he must have known the lie of the land, and Ruth must have guessed what was behind his sudden bitterness and anger. Ruth, with her gift for reading people, has taken it upon herself to keep an eye on him, much (I should think) to Harry's relief. It is one of the reasons, I expect, that he has not been tasked with any field operations, instead spending his days at Court, watching the excruciatingly slow drama of Zoe's trial unfold. Despite Ruth's misgivings, Harry says that he is confident that Zoe will be exonerated; he has spent more time than usual at Whitehall, lobbying the powers that be on her behalf, so when the jury turns in a _Guilty_ verdict, all Hell breaks loose on the Grid, with Harry leading the charge through Hades' gates. I am tasked with hacking the court records to find out the sentencing details, and I reel when I see that she is destined to spend ten of the prime years of her life in the maximum security wing at HM Prison, Durham. Our Zoe, incarcerated with notorious murderesses and IR A bombers…I think Harry may actually have an apoplexy when I tell him, so incoherent with rage is he for a moment. When he finally regains the power of speech, he uses it to unleash a torrent of language the like of which I doubt has rarely been heard outside a barrack-room, before he stalks towards the pods and leaves, calling for a driver as he does so.

I don't know what Harry does next, or whom he threatens, but somehow he brokers a deal, one which will save Zoe from jail, by sending her to the other side of the world, never to see her friends or family again. I trawl the prison records (a vast and depressing task) looking for a scapegoat with a suitably long sentence, who matches Zoe's general physical appearance; and then it is up to Harry and Danny to convince our golden girl to go. For once in his life, Harry fails; all his cajoling and urging amounts to nothing when pitted against her adamantine will. Danny is sent in, face set; and ten minutes later, Zoe is gone, passport in hand, to a new life.

I admire Danny greatly for that selfless act of courage; in saving the woman he loves for the last time, he has lost her forever. I cannot begin to think what it would be like to lose Ruth…she is so much a part of my life, of all our lives, now. I remind myself that she's a backroom worker like me, not a field officer; we stay safe, hidden in surveillance vans and security suites, or burrowed into the vast warren of Thames House. _Ruth is not a field spook_…it becomes my mantra, whenever I find myself feeling unreasonably anxious at the idea of losing her as Danny has lost Zoe. And yet, once the idea has taken hold, it is not so easily dismissed. _Harry wouldn't let anything happen to her_, I tell myself, and feel marginally better at that thought. Harry is like the Rock of Gibraltar, where Section D is concerned, a brooding, guarding presence, craggy and enduring, watching over his team, and the country he has given his life in service to, with equal parts of exasperation and acerbity. And affection – somewhere in there, I know there is still a grudging kind of affection for his country, even when it bites the hand that defends it. He's Harry bloody Pearce, after all, and no ordinary mortal.


	17. Chapter 17

The loss of Zoe affects us all in different ways, none more so than Danny. For myself, I miss her cheerful presence on the Grid, and her operational efficiency in the field. She was a pleasure to work with, as the old chestnut goes – except that she really was. Danny's anger and grief, on the other hand, makes him anything but. Normally a positive and effective case officer, with more than a touch of brilliance at times, he becomes taciturn, unpredictable and surly. I know he blames Harry, but this is just a pretext; he has lost his best friend, along with all hopes of winning her hand, and he is grieving as if Zoe has died. I wonder if we will soon lose him, too; he has become disillusioned with the life he once loved. I have observed the same phenomenon, many times before, in other brave and talented officers…

It is a terrible thing to see, and only Ruth is brave enough to speak directly to Danny of his loss, even though he angrily (and quite unnecessarily nastily, as far as I'm concerned) brushes off her well-meant enquiries. It doesn't stop her from trying though, bless her heart. Adam, more used than most to the possibility of potentially losing officers, with his high-risk postings to…wherever Six sent him… appears to take things in his long, easy stride; but Danny's unhappiness is a potent reminder, and I sense the tension escalating between the two men with great uneasiness. Tom would have handled things differently, but Tom is long gone; his conscience finally caught up with him, and he could no longer continue with the ruthless game we play with the lives of others in order to ensure the greater public good – I often wonder what the Utilitarian philosophers would have made of the world in which we now live. Not much, I suspect…not much.

As for Harry, he wears his guilt about Zoe's fate like a penitential hair-shirt; every time he passes her empty workspace, his face sets and his shoulders take on an extra degree of tension, and he has less patience than usual when dealing with the political side of his job. Naturally, Ruth picks up on this too, and she glances at the inner sanctum more often than usual, her face full of concern; I can't blame her, not really, not when Harry, in his own way, is mourning the loss of one of his finest officers.

So I think it is fair to say, that we are none of us at our best when things start to go wrong in the most dramatic ways – sealed packets of paracetamol tablets leaving factories laced with extra menazorphine, causing several dreadful deaths, and general panic in the population; then an attack on one of the biggest banks in the country, followed by widespread failure of the national traffic grid, leading to chaos. It is Colin, really, who tumbles to it first; this is cyber-terrorism on an unprecedented scale, perpetrated by someone with unfettered access to the very stuff of the Internet itself, the staggeringly long and complex algorithms which govern every interaction with the World Wide Web. The very idea of it makes my blood run cold: nothing is safe from this hacker, nothing.

Enter Andrew Forrestal, and his supreme forensic computer science skills, who arrives from GCHQ to augment our tech section as we race to find the perpetrator, now making outrageous ransom demands. We are at the hacker's mercy, and we know it; Harry is like a blind dog snapping at fleas, out of his depth against an enemy who can turn every piece of modern technology against us in ways he can't even begin to fathom, and for once he welcomes outside assistance from the eggheads of Cheltenham, as he disparagingly calls anyone, Ruth excepted, from GCHQ. Colin is doing absolutely brilliant work, of course; but not even the two of us and the rest of Five's geeks combined have the resources or capacity to deal with the rapidly cascading threat.

From the minute Forrestal arrives on the Grid, I heartily dislike him. Perhaps it is the way Ruth greets him as an old friend (Harry spots this too, and he doesn't look impressed, either); perhaps it is that he is too quiet, too mild-mannered, too amenable; or perhaps it is to do with the way his eyes light up whenever he sees Ruth. At any rate, I feel very uneasy at letting GCHQ bods have access to the Grid systems; but Harry insists, and his word is law. Colin promises me that he will ensure they will have access only to a quarantined environment; still, I have grave misgivings. _Ours not to reason why_…sometimes I think that Tennyson, paraphrased, is the Poet Laureate of the security services. Except the fearsome odds we so frequently find ourselves up against make the Charge of the Light Brigade look like a Saturday afternoon Pony Club gymkhana.

I am spending every waking hour (and a good few that aren't generally considered to be so) in the tech suite, doing the back-end work while Colin runs with the logistics of the operation; if he does well with this, he is likely to be head-hunted, or at the least promoted, but I am delighted that he is finally getting to prove his worth. I have no interest in promotions; I have found my niche in life, and I intend to occupy it for as long as they'll have me. I have never really fitted in around other people, but at least here I feel that I am doing something worthwhile, something that really matters. Sometimes, I wonder if I was actually born in another age, and have somehow fallen through a crack in Time to land in this age of frantic activity and gross inelegance that is the twenty-first century…or perhaps I dropped out of the Tardis. To my great excitement, dear old Aunty has seen fit to reboot _Doctor Who_, after an interminably long hiatus, and thanks to a contact at the Beeb, I have the whole first season, ahead of broadcast, tucked away to enjoy whenever I have a spare moment…_bliss!_

Meanwhile, Ruth is doing what she does best, working on the bits of Arabic poetry the hacker teasingly sends us, drawing out meaning and context from the very letters on the faxed pages which keep arriving from an untraceable source. Not everyone sees the value in this, under the circumstances; Danny, for one makes his view crystal clear to Ruth, but I know his judgement, indeed his whole attitude, is coloured by loss at present; and I can't help but smile as I overhear Ruth's reference to Flaubert, when she gently rebuffs Danny's cynicism. God is in the details, indeed, and no-one knows this better than me, living as I do in a world of often tiny, precise technology, which our people rely on to function perfectly, and which often means the difference between life and death.

Forrestal has the audacity to just ask Ruth over for dinner, at his house, late one night, and thus begins the most terrifying time of my life at Five to date. The EERIE exercise we completed a while back, simulating a chemical attack on a rather prominent city, is nothing, in comparison to the enormous fear I feel when we realise that she has been abducted by this meek-mannered, murderous monster. Harry, after missing a major clue (as if Ruth has ever been known to text anyone, much less use that particular medium to call in sick…to Sam, of all people!) is quietly determined to extract her, and get Forrestal, at the same time; but we still have to play along with his demands, as he holds all the cards. I can't get the image of Ruth, alone, frightened, possibly ill-treated (_or worse_, the darkest corner of my mind whispers) out of my head, and I scour every millimetre of CCTV footage from Thames House to Forrestal's lair, retracing the progress of their taxi until I see them both disembarking the night before, and walking inside. _She was alive then_, I tell myself_, and there's nothing for him to gain by killing her_…I have to believe that, or I will be incapable of doing anything useful. And I desperately want to be of use to her. _Just let me see her again_, I pray, _and I will do anything, anything in return. _My life is nothing, without her in it…

Eventually, I get my chance; Forrestal demands payment of an obscene amount, in diamonds. Harry instructs me to find a way of tinkering with the stones to take him out. Normally, I would have serious moral qualms at being the once-removed agent of Death, but not this time. _Crystalline carbon_, I muse, _pure and hard and impermeable… _ I upend the bag of diamonds, discreetly sourced from a friendly jeweller in Hatton Garden, and despite my fear and worry, I can't help but admire the beauty of the gems, like shattered ice scattered across my workstation. I recall a bit more from my advanced carbon chemistry course at Cambridge:

_Diamond has an extremely low thermal expansion. It is chemically inert with respect to most acids and alkalis, is transparent from the far infrared through the deep ultraviolet, and is one of only a few materials with a negative work function (electron affinity). One consequence of the negative electron affinity is that diamonds repel water, but readily accept hydrocarbons such as wax or grease._

_Hmmm…chemically inert_. I begin to hatch a plan, and after a few calls around Five (plus one, on a secure line, to Six's South East Asian desk) I am ready to begin, and gathering up the diamonds, I head for the chemistry lab. A tiny vial in a bright yellow HazMat canister arrives soon after, and I waste no time in incorporating it into the witches' brew I am concocting. At first, I only use half of the contents of the vial; then I think_, that bastard's got Ruth,_ and I tip in the lot with hands that are strangely steady, for someone who has just set out to kill a man. I want this to be a very fast death; I imagine Ruth's possible fear and distress at witnessing Forrestal's agony as the cobra venom's neurotoxins do their fatal work, and I am determined to spare her as much pain as possible, while completely neutralising the threat. When I have finished, I carefully take the poisoned diamonds back to the Grid and show Harry, who peers at them and nods grimly, sanctioning the use of a lethal weapon against one of our own…

**A/N: Up next, the aftermath of 3.7 – I didn't want to pack everything into just one chapter. There is a lot happening, both on and off the Grid, as will be revealed…**


	18. Chapter 18

_She's safe,_ I keep telling myself. _Danny and the rest of them got there in time, Forrestal's dead, she's in one piece and she's alive._ But I can't quite believe it, and for the first time in my life I run amber lights, exceed the speed limit, and generally drive in a manner reckless and endangering to the public, as I make my way to her house with all possible speed. I know it's late, I have no idea if she will be pleased or not, but I cannot sleep tonight until I have seen Ruth with my own eyes. As I pull into a parking spot just down the street from her house, I'm relieved to see that there are lights still burning on both floors. She's still up, then. I hasten to her door, knocking three times in rapid succession. There is what seems like an interminable wait, then the door opens a millimetre on its chain, just enough for me to hear her ask who it is. "R..r..Ruth, it's me. I'm sorry to call so late at night, but I just had to see that you were alright", I stammer in my nervousness and concern.

She takes the chain off the door and opens it. She is still dressed in her work clothes, but her feet are bare and her exhaustion is plain to see. "Malcolm…come in," she says, after a long moment, and she steps back, then leads the way into her small, old fashioned kitchen. "I was just about to make myself a hot drink…but I think a strong one might be more appropriate…" She raises an eyebrow in enquiry and I nod as she collects glasses from the sideboard and brandy from a high cupboard over the sink. She pours, spilling a few drops, then carries the drinks over to the kitchen table where I am sitting, as I watch her in concern. Something is terribly wrong, I can see it in the lines of her body and in the way she is avoiding my eyes. We sit in silence for a few minutes, drinks untouched before us. Finally she says, "It was my own fault, really, putting myself in danger like that. It's just that I felt sorry for him, he was so lonely…I thought, maybe…" - her voice is so low I have to lean forward to hear it – "maybe we could have…" and then she stops, shoulders shaking. I reach across the table, gently taking her hand, and she looks directly at me for the first time since my arrival. "Oh, Malcolm, any of us could end up like him, so damaged that right and wrong cease to exist. I was so frightened when…he tried to…he was going to…" and her control gives way for the second time since I have known her. She breaks our tenuous contact to huddle into herself as she weeps silently, rocking back and forth like a child.

I long to gather her in my arms, to hold her until she is calm again, but I know I must tread carefully; she has just spent a night incarcerated by a man she had trusted and counted as a friend, and I am afraid of what else he might have done... I must handle the situation delicately, as if I am working with a live high-explosive device. Stress and fear do strange things to people, and manifest themselves in odd ways, but I can see that already Ruth is beginning to calm down as she starts to get her breath back, so with iron self-control, I do not touch her. My mind is churning; I don't want to hear the end of that last sentence, I really don't. I know what she was going to say, and I can't bear the idea of it. Not Ruth. Not my Ruth. For the first time, I feel fiercely glad that Forrestal is dead; indeed, I am astounded at the intensity of my reaction.

At other times, when I have been involved in operations which have, deliberately or otherwise, resulted in loss of life, I have felt sickened, distressed, guilty, unclean; my usual ritual at such times is to find a church, and sit in it, breathing in the cool, calming scents of aged wood and stone, candle wax and old books, fading flowers and lemon furniture polish, until I feel that equilibrium has been somewhat restored…for me, it's the smell of home, or the closest thing to it, since my father passed away. I had loved spending time with him in the little Dunvant parish church while he prepared for his sermon (he was always a nervous public speaker, so he would practice again and again in the empty building). Some people find churches cold, discomfiting places. For me they have always been havens of peace and sanctuary; but tonight, my thoughts are centred solely on Ruth, and I feel no need to seek forgiveness for my part in her rescue – if I had to, I know I would do it again, without hesitation.

I wonder what Father would make of me now, perched on a hard kitchen chair, watching a woman almost twelve years my junior as she uncurls slightly and reaches for her brandy with a hand that trembles with exhaustion. "I'm all done in, Malcolm, it's been a very long day…" she sips her drink, making a face as the brandy fumes hit the back of her palate. I clear my throat and say, "I don't want to leave you alone tonight, Ruth, shall I call Sam or someone else to come over?" (anyone, that is, but _him,_ I add silently). I can't believe that no-one has offered to do this for her after the traumatic experience she has just been through; it's common knowledge that Ruth lives alone and her family is not near. I think back to some of the bitter things I have heard Danny say recently about the callousness of the Service, the way it demands our all yet gives so little to us, and I can't help but agree. It's a hard job; it makes for hard people, but somehow, I have never quite succeeded in growing the tough carapace of professional indifference and self-preservation at all costs which would protect me from some of the nastier realities of the shadowy world in which I work.

Ruth accurately reads the indignant look on my face and answers defensively, "Well Adam had to get home, Wes is staying with him tonight, and Danny…he's got enough on his plate at the moment, so I just got the ambulance chaps to drop me off after they gave me the all-clear. I didn't want to be a bother…" _That's so like Ruth_, I think, _never wanting to inconvenience anyone_…_never believing she's worth making a fuss over_. I take a deep breath (how much I would love to be able to show her she's wrong!), but before I can ask the question I dread, she mumbles, "And Harry…he didn't even call. I suppose once he knew the operation was successful, he went home, too." Her voice is small and defeated-sounding. I recall my last sight of Harry tonight as I slipped out of the pods; he was hunched over his desk, his face buried in his arms, his mobile phone lying unheeded for once…well, he could have come here, he could have called, he could have sent all the Queen's horses and all the Queen's men to enquire after her, but he didn't. The fact of the matter is, in this one thing, unbelievable though it is, I am braver than Harry...or more desperate, I'm not sure which. At any rate, I'm the one who is here. With Ruth.

I ask her again if I should call anyone, and she shakes her head; a tense silence fills the room, and eventually I say reluctantly," I suppose I should get going, then, unless there's anything else I can do?" The question hangs there, unanswered, until I make a move to stand up, and her huge, haunted eyes, filled with mute entreaty, lock onto mine as she simply says "_Please_…" I nod, unable to speak, as she stands up, brandy still unfinished, and heads for the hallway. I drain my own glass quickly, for courage, and follow her out of the kitchen.

Instinctively, I understand that she just wants my presence in the house tonight, and I'm perfectly prepared to bunk on the couch downstairs. I have my inhaler in my coat, and somewhere I think I have antihistamine tablets to combat my usual reaction to cat dander. As I follow Ruth, I look about the hallway, and frown to see how poorly secured her home is. I will have to fix _that_, and _those,_ and definitely change _this_, as I begin making a mental list of modifications to make things safe…oh, I think I have one of_ them_ in the car… I come out of my happy, technical reverie when I realise Ruth is sitting on the stairs, looking fixedly at the newel post, where my overcoat is draped. "Ruth? Are you alright?" I ask gently, and then she begins to speak, not to me, but to whatever she is seeing with that gelid gaze, and I am chilled to the bone at her words.

"Sore, so sore…why did he have to tie my arms so tightly? It's not as if I can escape, the whole house is locked down…I'm thirsty…It's cold here on the tiles, so cold…will they find me in time? I told Danny…look for God in the details…didn't think they'd lead me here…oh, I'm so tired…" I quietly say her name again, and Ruth starts in surprise. "I must have drifted off, sorry!" I offer her a hand up, appalled at the cold clamminess of her skin, realising that she's still in shock as she climbs to her feet stiffly. "A nice hot shower, it's the best thing for aching muscles," I tell her, striving for a light, matter-of-fact tone, and she nods and yawns at the same time. "You're right," she agrees, and heads for the bathroom.

While she's gone, I take the opportunity to call Mother and let her know I won't be home tonight, then I head into the little sitting room where I first brought Ruth the Karl files, and look around for a blanket which is not covered in cat hair. Eventually I find one on top of the bookshelf, of all places, and quickly make up a bed on the couch. My heart is pounding with the novelty of it all, but I am very deeply worried by what I have heard and seen so far. Ruth is not a field spook, with their training in mental and physical endurance…and she has endured a great deal in the last twenty-four hours.

After quarter of an hour has passed, curiosity gets the better of me, and I go upstairs to find her. Looking through the first door on the left, I can see that her bedroom is small, painted a soft blue, and furnished simply with a double bed, low bookcases stuffed to overflowing with works in five different languages, a slipper chair, a tiny wardrobe built into an alcove, and an old dresser – oak, early nineteenth century, if I know my antiques – and beautifully carved. I squint from the doorway and look closer, intrigued, to see that the uprights holding the oval mirror which crowns the piece are each topped with a tiny carved mouse. One is sitting upright, minute spectacles perched on its nose as it peers at a book held between its paws. The other is holding a quill and a long scroll, and is wearing academic robes and cap. Antique, scholarly mice, how Ruth... "It's been in my family for generations", she says from the hall behind me, "one of my more illustrious female forebears must have been a blue-stocking, if the mice are anything to go by." I look at her reflection in the spotted old mirror and think how small she seems, in her blue-striped pyjamas. "Bathroom's free," she adds, yawning, as she proffers a towel. I head into the bathroom for some quick ablutions, before going to check that every external door and window is locked. Ruth tells me not to open the laundry door, as her cats have been shut in for the night, and at my surprised look, she rolls her eyes and says in exasperation, "I'm not a totally crazy cat lady yet! If they're not put to bed, they romp all over the house and keep me awake." I chuckle in reply, and set off on my rounds.

Before turning in, I come back upstairs to wish Ruth goodnight. She is already half asleep, but her bedside light is still on. As I have done so many times for Mother, I step silently inside the room to turn the light off, and as I do so her eyes open wide, and she smiles at me, the first real smile I have seen from her in days. I smile back at her as I switch off the light, and from the darkness I hear her say softly,"Malcolm? Thank you, I mean, really, thank you for being here." I wish her a good night, then go downstairs to wrap myself in a rather too dusty blanket. But I'd happily sleep on a fakir's bed of nails, if it meant I could be near her, and I have a feeling that tonight, she needs watching over. I doze off, uneasily, into a sleep peppered with disturbing dreams I cannot quite recall.

A couple of hours later, near midnight, Ruth wakes suddenly, screaming, and by the sound of it, flings herself against the far wall as if catapulted from bed. On high alert, I gallop up the stairs, and find her huddled between the oak dresser and the wall radiator, staring sightlessly into the distance. I realise she is still asleep as she cries, "Andrew, no! No, please, not like this, no, no, get off, NOOOOOO!" and hits out at someone she sees only in her nightmare. I turn on the bedside light, and approach her cautiously.

Sometimes my mother has a little wander around the house at night, and I have to steer her back to her room without waking her more than is strictly necessary. I know how to deal with Mum, but Ruth's terror is escalating exponentially, and I see no choice other than to wake her. Kneeling down just out of her reach, I say her name softly. "Ruth? Ruth, you're having a nightmare. You're all right, you're safe, and I'm here. Ruth?" I touch her lightly on the shoulder and then she says it. "Harry?" she whispers, "Harry?" It cuts me to the core. Her voice shifts from raw terror to dawning hope when she says those two syllables, in a way that she has never said my name. With affection, certainly, with friendship, yes, but never like that. _Not yet_, I tell myself, ashamed at the hot, prickly sensation behind my eyes…_not yet_...

Steeling myself against further pain, I gently wake her. Her eyes are enormous dark pools in the dim light as she stares at me. "You were having a nightmare, Ruth. Come back to bed." She doesn't move, but instead whispers, "He was so lonely, Malcolm, and so much like us. What if we end up like that?" I blink in disbelief. She's talking about a man who abducted her, apparently tried to force himself on her, and who would almost certainly have killed her in the end, with so much compassion. Once more, this extraordinary woman leaves me lost for words. If that man were standing before me now, I would rather kill him with my bare hands before I let him touch so much as a hair on her head, and yet, even in the midst of her terror, she looked into the depths of his soul and saw the sad truth hidden there. I am in awe of her. Still, it is cold, crouched there on the floor, so I coax her out of her corner with an appeal on behalf of my aged joints, which makes her smile, just a tiny quirk of her mouth. Once up, Ruth pulls on her dressing gown, and tells me, "I could really do with a cup of tea…I seem to have banished sleep for now." Tea, strong, sweet, hot tea - just the ticket, I decide, and we go downstairs.

With steaming mugs in hand, we settle, one at each end, onto the couch where I had been trying to sleep, and after Ruth has tucked her feet under her, neat as one of her own cats, she turns to face me and says, "Tell me everything. Please, I need to know". _Of course you do,_ I think wryly,_ information and analysis is your life. _So I recount the events since her abduction, going over details and facts until she is satisfied that she knows all; and for her part, she enlightens me as to the most terrifying experience of her life, until I wish she hadn't…dear God, how I wish she hadn't.

"What was on those diamonds?" is her first question, and in reply, I ask, "Was it…quick?" Her eyes fill with sadness as she relives those moments, and she says, "Oh, yes. He had just taken out a handful of them – he actually brought them to his lips and kissed them in jubilation – and then he simply…dropped." _Yes_, I think_, direct contact with the mucosal membranes would have caused almost instant death..._ Ruth's voice continues, "At first, I thought he must have been having a fit or seizure, but when he went rigid, then started to foam at the mouth, I knew he had been poisoned…he didn't make a sound, just went into a huge spasm, and turned limp, and I could tell he was dead." I nod, and she looks at me with that piercing, truth-seeking gaze of hers. "I knew that was you, Malcolm. I knew that somehow you had poisoned those stones…what was it?" I shuffle in my seat a bit, uncomfortable at admitting my part in a man's death out loud, but tell her, "Spitting cobra venom, from a species in the Philippines, the deadliest sort, concentrated in a transparent polymer-based solution to adhere to every surface of each diamond. The venom is a neurotoxin which affects cardiac and respiratory function, causing neurotoxicity, respiratory paralysis and death. The neurotoxins interrupt the transmission of nerve signals by binding to the neuro-muscular junctions near the muscles…" I break off, aware that my explanation is going unheeded as Ruth's face crumples. Putting down my tea, I cautiously move closer, but until she turns, shaking, to bury her face in my shoulder, I do not touch her; only then will I allow myself to do what I have been longing to do since I arrived. I fold her into my arms while she cries, for herself, for Forrestal, and for the whole wretched lot of us who deal in death for the defence of the realm.

Although I am finally holding her, I can't soothe her as she relives the fear and horror of the last day. When her weeping finally becomes broken sobbing, then occasional hiccups, and my back is aching from the awkward position I have twisted it into, Ruth shifts on the couch until she is just leaning into my side. Staring at the floor, she speaks in a voice so low I can barely hear the words.

"He was going to kill me, Malcolm…I could see it in his eyes, once he had the diamonds…at first, when he began to take off his belt, I thought…I thought he wanted to …"she breaks off as a shudder passes through her whole body, and she presses in closer to me, seeking the reassurance of my solid warmth. I put my arm gently round her shoulders as she continues. "When I first realised it was him, that he was the one responsible for all those deaths, I tried to get away, but he tackled me, and then…he pinned me beneath him…and the look on his face…he was wondering how far he dared to go…I could _feel_ he wanted to…I was so frightened…I actually wished he'd kill me, instead of…instead of having to endure that. I couldn't bear it…" I exhale slowly, striving to remain calm, to be who she needs me to be; a kind, caring friend, instead of the man who loves her to distraction, and who is suddenly filled with rage towards an enemy I have already killed. I know, far too well, the depths of depravity that men are capable of, but to think of Ruth, forced against her will,_ violated_…it is unimaginably obscene.

I battle for control, and must succeed to a point, as she goes on with, "I'll never know why, but at the last minute, he stopped…perhaps he found my sheer terror off-putting, or perhaps there was still some shred of decency left in him…he was such a nice man when I knew him at GCHQ...and then, once he had gagged and tied me to the foot of the stairs, I knew he was going to kill me. All I could think was, _where are they? Where are my colleagues, my friends? Will they get here in time?_ And then the diamonds arrived, and I knew. I could feel it…they were coming for me…but I never thought it would be you who saved me. You and your diamonds…Danny and Adam might have rescued me, but you saved me, Malcolm. He had taken his belt off to strangle me, when he reached into the bag and grabbed that handful of death…" She shudders again and falls silent, and I pull her closer still, closing my eyes against the feeling of her soft body against mine, her hair tickling my hand on her shoulder, the clean scent of her…_wonderful!_

We stay like that for a time, just sitting companionably close, sipping our cooling tea, then Ruth suddenly looks up at me and asks, "What will happen to the diamonds now? There must have been a king's ransom in that bag...I saw one of the junior field staff collecting them with a hazmat suit and some very long tongs." I turn to look at her, amazed at the way in which her mind works, and explain, "I'm in the process of decontaminating them now. Before I left tonight, I put them to soak in an enzyme bath which will dissolve the coating, then I'll clean them with denatured alcohol, and then tomorrow night, I'll take them across to St Thomas' Hospital and run them through their industrial autoclave a few times just to make absolutely certain they're safe." Ruth shakes her head in wonder, and suddenly, a giggle erupts, then another, until she is bent over, howling with laughter. Alarmed, I diagnose another stage of shock, and wonder if I should perhaps phone for advice from TRING, until she draws breath enough to gasp out, "It's all too awful...deadly diamonds...like something out of James Bond...and it's true, diamonds really are a girl's best friend!" I immediately place the film reference, but wonder what a rather banal Marilyn Monroe film can possibly have in common with the present situation, until I see what Ruth means, and begin to laugh too, out of sheer relief that she is going to be alright - hysterical laughter, I have read, is a common way for the body to release pent-up stress and cope with difficult situations, a psychological safety-valve, as it were. I feel the residual tension and fear beginning to drain from Ruth like a lanced boil, and say a heartfelt prayer of thanksgiving.

For myself, I don't know how to begin sorting through the conflicting thoughts and emotions which are tumbling through my overtired mind. Relief on a grand scale, at having her safe; fury at Forrestal, both for what he did, and what he so nearly did; an unfamiliar sense of pride at my part in her rescue, as acknowledged by Ruth; hurt, that she said Harry's name, and not mine, earlier; and underlying it all, the weight of my undeclared love for her. From the slack feel of her body against mine, Ruth is now not very far off falling asleep, so I nudge her carefully and say, "Ruth? It's very late…" She stirs and replies in a voice slurred by exhaustion, "I'm too tired to move…why don't you take my bed, and I'll sleep here?" The thought is a tempting one, but my sense of propriety doesn't allow me to entertain it for long. Slowly getting to my feet, I say, "Come on, then," as she protests sleepily. With an arm around her, I guide her upstairs, and stop at the doorway of her room. As I turn to leave, her hand catches mine, and she whispers, "Stay…" I hesitate for only a moment, and then I follow her to bed.

I understand very well that Ruth's request is not about sex, but about her loneliness and vulnerability; don't we all sometimes long for the unconditional acceptance of simple physical contact with another human being, to keep the monsters at bay? I drape my tie, shirt and trousers over the chair, put my shoes neatly underneath, and get into bed in my undershirt, boxers, and socks. Her house really is appallingly cold, and I vow to do something about it when I return to upgrade its security. Surely the least the Service could do is pay its workers enough to be able to afford as much central heating as they like, but having once had to survive on the pittance the government sees fit to reward us with, I know the truth.

Ruth starts awake as the bed dips under my weight, then curls her body into mine, murmuring, "Hold me," so I wrap my left arm around her waist, curve my right one around her shoulders, and with a sigh she relaxes back into me, her breathing easing into the slow rhythm of sleep. I feel the soft weight of her body against me, a tantalising burden, and much as I want to stand guard over her dreams, I fall asleep soon afterwards, marvelling at how the events of the last few days have led to this moment. In those minutes before sleep claims me, I vow that I will never do anything to betray her trust, and that I will move heaven and earth to keep her safe in future. What's the use of being a spook, I think sleepily, if not to keep the people one cares about safe? I know Harry has sometimes used his position and influence to protect his family, especially his headstrong daughter. This is no different, I tell myself. Except that this is Ruth, and there is nothing I that will not do for her. Just as I slide into unconsciousness, a fragment of poetry drifts through my mind…_Asleep! O sleep a little while, white pearl! /And let me kneel, and let me pray to thee, / And let me call Heaven's blessing on thine eyes… _

**A/N: The poem is one of Keats'.**


	19. Chapter 19

I am wakened early next morning by a sound I can't quite identify; a soft, rhythmic thumping noise, coming from downstairs. Ruth is nowhere to be seen, but I deduce that whatever the noise is, it is benign; I can also hear her singing softly. I stretch, easing the kinks out of my spine, and can't help breaking into an ear-to-ear grin as I recollect last night. Nothing happened, but everything has changed...I can feel it. Ruth slept in my embrace all night, barely moving or stirring in her exhaustion, her quiet breathing a soothing cadence lulling me into a deeper sleep. I can still feel the warmth of her back curved against my chest and belly, the weight of her in my arms as she gave me her complete trust. To sleep in company with another person is one of the greatest acts of vulnerability any human being can commit, and for people like Ruth and me, reserved and shy by nature, it has more than the usual significance that our more egotistical and extroverted counterparts might assign to it. The only thing more intimate, of course, is the physical act of love itself, but neither Ruth nor I are ready to bare our souls to each other again just yet; this is a tiny, tender thing which has sprung up between us in the night, and I know that I must nurture it with the greatest of care…

Rolling out of bed, I shuffle back into my clothes (daringly, I leave my tie off) and glance at my watch, surprised to see it is only 6:17am. _What is Ruth up to?_ I wonder, once more tuning in to the soft thudding noise, and pad downstairs in my stocking feet to find out.

As I walk into the kitchen, I am surprised to see Ruth raise both fists over her head, then bring them down swiftly on the whitish mass before her on the table, making the thumping noise which has been puzzling me. She gives the lump of stuff a quarter turn, then pummels it again. The unmistakable smell of yeast, accompanied by a fine white dust, rises into the air as she does so, and a memory from my infancy resurfaces: my maternal grandmother, my Nain, making _bara brith_ for tea-time, turning and folding the dough as she kneaded it. _Ruth is certainly giving it her all_, I think, observing her with her sleeves rolled up, grunting with the effort as she first draws out the dough, before folding it back on itself, and turning it again, completely absorbed by her task, seemingly unaware of my presence as she hums to herself, something that sounds like a chorus from one of Gilbert and Sullivan's operettas… _Iolanthe_, perhaps… I am so charmed by the sight, I remain standing, leaning against the doorframe, until one of her cats decides to notice me, trotting over to circle around me with a proprietorial air. I love animals, I really do, but unfortunately my asthma has other ideas, especially where cats are concerned; and the morning peace is shattered as I sneeze twice in rapid succession.

Ruth's head snaps up, and when she sees me, her normally solemn face lights up (my stomach performs a complete flip in delight at her response). "Malcolm! Did I wake you? I'm sorry…" I shake my head to circumvent her apology, and continue to watch her movements in fascination, her small, square hands surprisingly strong as she separates the dough into three parts and then rolls each one out into a long rope as she speaks. "We do have bakeries in London, you know," I tell her, as I take a seat at the far end of the table, and she smiles in reply. "Yes, but none of them will make anything as good as this. I've been making bread since I was nine years old…practice makes perfect, right?" I smile back at her and say jokingly, "Nine? Had the child labour laws not been repealed in your home town, then?" Ruth's hands falter for a moment as she expertly braids the three ropes of dough together, before she continues with, "It was the last thing I ever did with my father, before he died…he used to say it was therapeutic, after a long day wrestling with the NHS, and given my experience with the civil service, I tend to agree. Plus, it helps me to think…" _Heaven help us all_, I muse, _if Ruth's thinking can actually be any further improved_…_she's already the most formidable intellect I've ever met_… "Your father?" I prompt, sensing that there's more to be said.

Ruth sighs, then glances at me, her eyes shadowed with sadness. "Yes, he died when I was eleven. Car accident. It was awful. My mother just went to pieces, couldn't cope with anything, so the doctors doped her up on Valium for weeks…my uncle persuaded her to send me to boarding school, he said it would be better for me to be away from the house, and with girls my own age, doing normal activities…I loved my father, Malcolm, more than anyone else in the world, and I couldn't believe that I was being sent away from everything that reminded me of him…something happened to me, when I got to that horrible school, and I just sort of went dead inside for ages. I did my lessons, I went to prep, I went to games, I went to bed when they said to and got up when the bell rang…but I wasn't really there. It was like the real me had stayed at home, with Dad, and just the shell of me was walking around at school. When I went home for exeats or holidays, it was as if Dad had died all over again…then Mum started to see new people, and I didn't want to go home at all. I felt like I had been shunted off to this awful place so that Mum could get on with her life as if Dad and me had never existed at all…of course, I realise now that I was wrong about that, but at the time, all I could see was that what I wanted didn't matter, I didn't matter…the other girls were vile, at first, no-one else in the school had lost a parent, so no-one could understand what I was going through…it was the worst year of my life, and somehow, it changed me forever. I became less sure of myself, more melancholy, and I've struggled with loneliness and depression ever since…I dread being abandoned again. I don't think I could bear it…"

Her voice trails off, and in the ensuing silence, I reach across the table and take hold of one of her floury hands. I can't think what else to do or say, so I just hold her hand until she gives herself a little shake and says, "Thanks for listening – I don't usually tell people all my deep, dark secrets…but then, you're not just people, you're Malcolm." She doesn't withdraw her hand from mine, though, and I feel my heart swell until it seems to be knocking against my ribcage at these last words…_softly, now, ever so carefully_…_oh, Ruth_… "It's never easy to lose one's father, at any age. I was close to my father, too, and when he died, I thought the world had gone on and left me behind…it was the same year, you see, that Sarah broke off our engagement, and like yours, my mother didn't cope very well with the loss of my father, either…and there was no-one else, just me…so I think I understand, just a little, what it must have been like for you, and I'm sorry." I give her hand an affectionate little squeeze as I say this, and follow up with a smile. She smiles back, then reclaims her hand and reaches for the braid of bread on the table between us.

Ruth carefully slides the loaf onto a baking tray, and reaches for a damp cloth to cover it with. I raise an enquiring eyebrow, and she explains, "It has to rise, now. I'll just sit it on top of the Aga, where it's warm, then I'll make us tea." Once the bread has been set to rise and Ruth has poured tea for both of us, she takes a seat across from me at the table, and raises her mug in salutation. "Good morning to you, Malcolm," she smiles at me, and I gravely return the greeting, before winking at her to show I understand she is making a joke of my rather formal way of speaking. Ruth seems to be a woman transformed this morning, and I would like to think that last night had something to do with it. I sift back through her words, and frown as I wonder what it is that she so badly needed to think about, that she felt the need to get up at a very early hour, in a cold house, and start making bread. Ruth, facing me, sees my puzzlement, and before I can ask, she takes a deep breath and says, "Us. I needed to do some thinking about us".

With those words, I suddenly feel that I can barely breathe, much less speak; my chest feels as if there is a great weight crushing it, and it is only with a supreme effort that I manage to remain sitting at the table, and not go staggering to the hall for the inhaler in my coat. I close my eyes for a moment, willing the air into my lungs, and then I wrap both hands around my mug to disguise their trembling. Ruth watches me with those clear, candid eyes as she says, "I've been a bit silly lately, first about John Fortescue, and then A…Andrew, because I've been so very lonely. I really envied Danny and Zoe, having such a close bond – they'd have done anything for each other. This job doesn't make it easy to meet anyone like that, does it?" I can't speak, so I nod and make a noise which I hope she will construe correctly as agreement with her statements. She continues, "And I suppose there's been another reason too, one I've only just admitted to myself…but I suspect that you might know what it is." Like Banquo's ghost, the spectre of Harry bloody Pearce appears in front of my appalled eyes, grinning horribly…I wait, unable to breathe, until I hear her next words. "It's just that I was so busy looking elsewhere, I couldn't see what was right in front of me, but…after the last two days, something has changed…" Ruth pauses, gathering herself for the final foray, and then in her gentlest voice she asks me, "Malcolm, how long have you been in love with me?"

**A/N: Bara Brith is the traditional fruit-studded tea bread of Wales. Malcolm's grandmother is making the old-fashioned, yeasted version, not the Harlech version, which is more cake-like.**


	20. Chapter 20

With those words, the world around me tilts unexpectedly and goes out of focus, a burning sensation fills my chest, and white flashes of light dance before my eyes as I struggle for breath, in the grip of a full-blown asthma attack brought on by the sheer shock of Ruth's question. I am vaguely aware of her running from the room, then my inhaler is pressed into my hand; next I wheeze and heave as I simultaneously try to pull air into my lungs, and fight back the waves of nausea which always accompany a severe episode. As the medication begins to work, I feel a hand moving in calming circles, rubbing my back; Ruth is sitting on the edge of the table next to me, looking at me with an odd mixture of mortification, affection, and concern. "I've put the cats outside," she says apologetically, "I'm so sorry, I didn't realise they were sitting just under the table like that…how are you feeling?" I shake my head to indicate I can't yet speak, and she slips off the table, crosses to the sink, and comes back with a glass of water.

I gulp it down, trying to get rid of the chemical taste of the medication, and concentrate on breathing slowly and deeply, as I have been taught, while a dozen different thoughts and feelings fly through my oxygen-deprived brain. Panic, which wrestles with fear, doubt and sheer disbelief - _did she really just say that?_ and then rather more absurdly, the phrases _Operation Compromised_ and _Security Breach_, followed by one Harry detests: _Plausible Deniability…_but this is Ruth, and she already knows. I can see it in her kindness, in her solicitude for my wellbeing, and suddenly I feel very close to tears, worn out by the emotional uncertainty of the last few weeks. This is not how I had planned things, not at all…why does she have to be so bloody good at reading people?

Ruth, from her roost on the table-top next to me, is humming quietly under her breath as she waits for me to regain what little is left of my self-possession and composure. My breathing is returning to normal, and although it feels as if every muscle in my body has been beaten with a thick stick, I am relieved, when I check my pulse, to find that it has dropped back to its usual steady beat…almost. Exhausted, I lower my head into my hands, unable to look at her and confirm what I already know…she doesn't love me. How can she, when she is so very evidently in love with Harry damn-his-eyes Pearce, with his charisma, his air of command, his pithy way with words…again I hear his sad voice in the interrogation room, speaking words not meant to be heard, again I see him, shaking with relief as Danny calls in the news from Forrestal's house that Ruth is safe; and I know that all the love I would gladly pour onto the altar of my worship for her is as nothing when compared with one terse sentence from the object of her adoration. I take a long, shuddering breath, trying to ease the heavy feeling of tightness which is twining itself around my torso, and which has nothing to do with cats or asthma, and everything to do with hopelessness and heartbreak.

As I withdraw into myself, I become aware that the comforting circles being rubbed gently on my back have continued throughout the whole horrible event, and that Ruth is still humming…almost as if she has no idea of the despair and distress engulfing me as the result of her innocuous little enquiry. Aggrieved by her uncharacteristic insensitivity, I glance up at her, and she smiles brightly. "Well?" she asks, and I stare at her in utter incomprehension. "Feeling better now?" I nod, unable to muster the energy or the words to speak, and she frowns slightly. "What's wrong, Malcolm? You're very quiet, even for you." I have to get away, I have to leave, before I lose my last shreds of dignity and self-control, I think desperately. As I try to climb to my feet, I feel Ruth's hands on my shoulders, and something in the quality of her touch makes me look her straight in the eye; what I see there makes my knees weak. I sink back onto the chair as Ruth, eyes glowing, leans forward from her perch on the table and says, "I love you, too." I blink, unable to process this completely unforseen, albeit long-wished for, turn of events. Instead, I blurt out the first thing which comes to mind: "What about Harry?" And there it finally is; the hidden worm at the heart of our nascent relationship, out in the open at last. Ruth looks nonplussed as she considers the ramifications of my agonised question, and then replies in a puzzled tone of voice, "What about Harry? Yes, he's our boss, but he can also be an arrogant ass, and I'd rather he didn't know about us, not at first, anyway." One of the minor blessings of becoming romantically involved with a colleague in the Service is that the supremely embarrassing S24 (permission to socialise) form is not required; however, if Ruth thinks that Harry doesn't know when two of his officers have formed a liaison, then she's more naïve than I would ever have suspected…but then, that's Ruth – a study in contradictions. I simply don't know what to think, and with her immediate physical proximity, I'm rapidly losing the ability to function logically at all. I drag my attention back to the matter at hand and make a final effort to assuage my uncertainty about this sudden shift in a woman I have seen looking wistfully at another man on an almost daily basis. She answered that last question in such an off-the-cuff manner, I could almost believe her, if not for the evidence of my own eyes over the last year…

Getting to my feet, I lean against the edge of the table, mirroring but not touching Ruth, and rub my hands over my face. Relationships, I am beginning to remember, are as fraught with hidden dangers and pitfalls as any security operation, except that one doesn't get to sit at a safely remote distance in the surveillance van; one is out in the field, fending for oneself. Sounding much braver than I feel, I ask, "Why now, Ruth? You must have guessed for some time that I have…feelings…for you, so what's changed?" I ask her, amazed at my boldness. _Extremis malis, extrema remedia_… Kill or cure, I think grimly.

Ruth turns to look at me, and her eyes show her confusion at my question. "Yes, in hindsight, I suppose so, but I wasn't certain until last night…you were so tender, so patient and careful with me, when I was such a complete mess. Only a lover could have done what you did for me, in the way that you did it; I felt that I was seeing you clearly for the first time…and what I saw is that you're an extraordinary man. One whom I love." A slow blush burns its way up to my hairline in response to this; I am unused to hearing such words from anyone, and it is almost too much to take in, after all my yearning and longing after Ruth.

Fighting back the sense that I am teetering on the edge of a precipice, I doggedly return to my earlier question. "But…I always thought…Harry?" Ruth stiffens at his name. "Harry? He's demanding, he virtually expects miracles from me, but he can also be pig-headed, insensitive, and wrong – and it's my job to steer him back on track when he is. Remind me to tell you about the shambles that was my disciplinary hearing, sometime…"I feel the corner of my mouth quirk up when she says that, in spite of everything.

Ruth barely pauses for breath before she plunges on with, "Yes, Harry's a powerful man, and I'd be lying if I didn't say he's an attractive one, in a world-weary, battered way, but he's seventeen years older than me, with centuries more baggage, in every sense. He would be exhausting to be around, I don't think he knows how to switch off…and most of all, he's already got a mistress." I blink in astonishment – _this is news indeed_ – until Ruth says, "Harry's wedded to the Service, and always will be. Who can compete with that?" _All true_, I think, _and yet_…"And I do worry about him sometimes, the pressure he's under, the amount he drinks…the same as I worry about everyone I work with or care about. I can't help it, it's just what I do…my work is my life, and my colleagues are like my family." Presenting the last shred of argument against this sudden sea-change in our relationship, I say plaintively, "But I thought you just wanted to be friends, after...the Requiem?" Ruth sighs, looking at the floor between her feet, before she responds. "I didn't know then what I wanted, Malcolm. I was very unfair to you. That night...it was shattering for me. I hadn't been with anyone for a long time, and while I liked you, very much, I never dreamt that we would be so… _compatible_. It frightened me, and so I ran. I'm so sorry, for everything… will you forgive me?" Of course, I do, because this is Ruth, and she has said that she loves me, and what other choice do I have? _I say not unto thee, until seven times: but, until seventy times seven, _I seem to hear my father's voice intone.

Eventually, once all the arguments have been made and answered, and there is no more to be said, Ruth hops off the table and heads over to the Aga, declaring that the bread is ready for the oven. With a thick cloth, she carefully opens one of the little cast iron doors and slides the risen loaf inside, then sets the timer for 35 minutes. Walking back to the table, her phone rings, and when she answers it, I know it is work from the business-like tone she adopts during the short call. By the time she is standing in front of me, her earlier demeanour of barely suppressed delight has returned.

"That was Adam, he said I should take the day off to recover…" I peer at the clock on the wall and sigh – time for me to get going. Fortunately, I always keep a change of clothes and a shaving kit in the car, the habit of more all-nighters on the Grid than I care to count. I become aware that Ruth is smiling at me again, her eyes as luminous as one of her cats', and she steps closer, then says, "Call in sick, and stay here with me…please?" I look aghast at her – I have never done any such thing in my life – and then she reaches up on tiptoe, and whispers a few lines of Latin poetry in my ear…and with that, I send a text to Harry telling him I won't be in, and take Ruth upstairs to bed, where we suit actions to words, and fulfill Catullus' ancient promise to his lover.

_da mi basia mille, deinde centum _

_dein mille altera, dein secunda centum, _

_deinde usque altera mille, deinde centum. _

_dein, cum milia multa fecerimus, conturbabimus illa, ne sciamus, _

_aut ne quis malus inuidere possit, cum tantum sciat esse basiorum. _

...Oh, _Ruth!_

The bread burns...

**A/N: Translation of the poem which changed Malcolm's mind about going to work:**

_**Give me a thousand kisses, then a hundred,**_

_**Then another thousand, then a second hundred, **_

_**then yet thousand, then a hundred. **_

_**Then, when we have made up many thousands, **_

_**we will confuse our counting, that we may not know the**_

_**nor any malicious person blight them with evil eye, **_

_**when he knows that our kisses are so many.**_

**From Catullus **_**V**_

**The verse Malcolm remembers his father quoting is from the King James version of Matthew 18:21-22.**


	21. Chapter 21

Afterwards, as we are lying entangled under the duvet in the little blue bedroom, Ruth asks, "So, did you...enjoy yourself?" I turn my head to look at her incredulously, and she smiles, saying, "I thought so. It's just that it can be a bit difficult to tell…you can be so, so _polite_…" My heart begins to race in fearful anticipation of what she is going to say next, and once again I hear Sarah's cold, contemptuous voice ticking off a list of my inadequacies and inabilities. I roll onto my side to look at Ruth, trying to read her face, but it is as kind as usual. In a puzzled voice, she says, "It's as if you're somehow not quite here, in the moment…" I try to think of the correct answer to this observation, but fail. It's true that I'm not as physically fluent as she is, but I had attributed this to my own inexperience. Her next question shocks me. "Malcolm, do you actually like sex?" I blush furiously, tongue-tied, and she chuckles low in her throat. "It's just that if we're going to be together, (oh, how my heart flutters wildly at these words) don't you think it should be enjoyable for us both?" I cannot imagine where she is going with this, but at least she is still talking about "we" and "us", so I relax slightly and ask her what she has in mind. "You, talking to me about how you feel about it, would be a good start," Ruth prompts, and when I open my mouth to protest, she lunges across the small distance between us and kisses me until I capitulate.

Flopping back on the pillows, with Ruth propped on her elbows next to me, face cupped in her hands, watching me with eyes like a serene blue sea, I gather my thoughts, and hesitantly begin. "Erm, well…my father was the local vicar, so you can imagine what that did for my image in the village…not that it wasn't already bad enough, being the school geek…the only time they ever liked me, I think, was after I bugged the staffroom to eavesdrop on the teachers, then played the recording during assembly…not a very bright move, in retrospect, but the whole school treated me like a king for about a week, then it was forgotten in the wake of the next rugby match, or football game…" Ruth's eyes sparkle with amusement and she nods encouragingly. "What I'm trying to say is, I wasn't exactly popular, and as for girls…I couldn't even look at them without blushing. And nothing much changed, right through university, until I met Sarah, and once she saw that I was bound for an unglamorous career in the civil service, and that I had Mum to consider as well, that was it for us." _No need_, I think, _to tell Ruth of Sarah's hurtful betrayal. _"When I joined Five and realised that part of my job was to monitor and record people in the most intimate, compromising situations, I had a very hard time coming to terms with it. I suppose I wasn't very worldly to begin with, and I found it very difficult to be subjected to such…scenes. And some of the things I saw were horrible, Ruth, the depravity and degradation that some…people…are capable of would turn your stomach. I didn't find any of it in the least titillating or interesting – other people's pleasures are so boring, aren't they?"

Ruth nods in silent agreement, perhaps unwilling to break into my thoughts. "I had to find a way to deal with that, so I learned to wall off my real self when I was doing surveillance, to concentrate on the technical and operational aspects, and to treat the subjects as if they were no more real than actors in a Soho movie-house. I developed detachment, found a way to retreat into my mind, and over the years I became very good at living in my head. As for…sex, itself…the only time my father ever talked to me about it, he told me that it's something which should only be shared with one's spouse, which was hardly a surprise coming from an Anglican vicar…but he also said that when it's good, it's like a dance where two people take turns to lead and be led, moving together in perfect harmony to music only they can hear... I never understood what he meant, by that second part, until now." Ruth's eyes brighten even more and she reaches one hand out to take mine, interweaving our fingers and bringing the back of my hand to her lips, brushing a kiss onto it that makes me quiver in delight, before giving her analysis.

"So, what I'm hearing is that you were a shy, but brilliant boy, who became a shy, but brilliant man, forced to witness things that many other men would pay to see, but which repulsed you to the point of nausea, and caused you to retreat inside your head, cutting off a whole world of physical realities. And your father was the local clergyman, to boot. You poor thing, no wonder you're not comfortable in your own skin." I frown, about to disagree, but then realise the truth behind her words as I think of someone who is totally content in his battle-scarred hide. I am nothing like Harry, and even less so in this regard. He has the quietly confident air of a man who is at peace with every inch of his body, flaws, scars, and all, whereas I am only truly comfortable when fully clothed, preferably in a three piece suit. And from his former, formidable reputation as the Casanova of the Service, I can only assume that he is equally at home with his sexual prowess…_lucky bugger_, I think in a green-eyed moment – and then I see the woman who is here beside me, listening to me, and my jealousy disperses like smoke on the wind.

Once more, Ruth's wisdom and insight cuts straight to the heart of the matter, and I can only nod in response, struggling to find the right words. She continues thoughtfully, "And yet, you blush when I look at you, like this, and shiver if I touch you…like_ this_," I gasp at her sudden movement beneath the duvet…"do you know, I think there's a very sensual man just waiting to be let out…" My breathing becomes short and rapid again as she continues, and then she removes her hand and sitting up, strips the duvet off us both. I am still not used to the sight of her, nude – every time is like the first, and although I can't help feeling that a thunderbolt from heaven could strike at any moment, I can't get enough of seeing her creamy-skinned, lightly freckled body next to mine. I especially love the freckles, like exotic markings…_beautiful!_

For a shy and modest person, Ruth is surprisingly easy about nudity when we are in the bedroom, and I put it down to the difference in our ages. Sarah had flatly refused to remove all her clothes, on the handful of occasions (three) that we had been together, and her response to my tentative efforts at seduction had been to stay perfectly still and gaze in boredom at the ceiling. She may as well have been reading _Lie back and think of England,_ writ large in Victorian script across the architrave. When she had finally told me she was leaving me for the flash City suit she had been conducting an affair with, there had been an air of barely suppressed excitement about her, and a look in her eyes as if she had been vouchsafed some miraculous revelation…now, I know the meaning of that look, for I have seen it in Ruth's eyes, just after we finish, and her body goes limp in my arms, sated and replete…that I should be capable of eliciting such a response from her is a source of tremulous wonder and humble delight. I can barely remember the aching loneliness of the decades of my life before her. Before Ruth...

My generation bore the brunt of the AIDS crisis, and the free and easy Seventies had become the prudish and uptight Eighties, when everyone knew someone affected by this hideous disease (which was _not_, incidentally, something the CIA or KGB cooked up to eliminate certain elements of society, as some of the loonier conspiracy theorists would have it) and total abstinence, or practicing safe sex, were suddenly the only options for those wishing to avoid infection. My own response was dictated both by fear of infection and of further feminine rejection, and the morals instilled in me by my parents; and so, I abstained, retreating further and further into a clean, safe world of computers and electronics, of coding and algorithms, until I had become a man that others didn't even overlook, because they never saw me in the first place. And that suited me well; it allowed me to come and go unseen as I bugged rooms, ran fibre-optic surveillance devices through walls, or emerged from the back of the observation van.

By the time Ruth's cohort was going to University in the 1990's, the fearful spectre of AIDS had receded somewhat, and the pendulum of sexual permissiveness was beginning to swing the other way again. And as for now – I can hardly bring myself to look at what goes on now, in some of the rooms we have bugged recently. It's like something out of a Hieronymus Bosch painting, or a banned film. I was positively relieved when Colin was recruited, and some of the more junior field staff began to volunteer for observation shifts, but often Harry insists on the senior technical officer on more important operations, and that's me, whether I like it or not.

Ruth's warm breath on my skin jolts me out of my musings and back into the here and now, as she invites me to roll over onto my front. I comply, stretching full length as she wraps a sheet around herself, sarong-style, for warmth in the cool room, and then kneels next to me. Turning my head to look, one-eyed, over my shoulder, I see Ruth rubbing something together in her palms, and in reply to my questioning glance, she says, "Sweet almond oil – I use it when my skin feels dry," and then she glides her palms up from the base of my spine to my shoulders, and I cease to think at all as Ruth's skilled fingers find every knot of tension, every sore place, every tight muscle, eliminating them one by one as I melt beneath her touch. Methodically, she works over my back and shoulders, awakening nerve endings I never knew I had, as I lie there in a state of utter bliss, deeply moved by the attention she is lavishing on me.

At one point, I hear Ruth make a thoughtful noise in her throat, so I make an enquiring noise of my own. She is working on my shoulders, putting more pressure through the tight trapezius muscles (too many hours on the Grid, hunched over a keyboard), as she says, "Oh, I was just thinking that you have skin like a peach, it's so fine – most men seem to have something more like leather, it's not responsive at all to anything subtle. With you, I can just draw my fingers across it like this – and see the tiny hairs rise, and then it flushes…quite amazing!" I remind myself to keep breathing slowly and steadily as warmth rushes through my body. Ruth moves further down, and I feel the bed move as she shifts position and straddles me, almost sitting on my backside as she concentrates on my lumbar region. She discovers that I am ticklish around my middle and sides, that I will groan with pleasure if she applies the right sort of pressure just _there, _and that I adore it when she runs her hands up and out slowly from the small of my back. "So, what were you saying about dancing, earlier?" she queries, as she turns around one hundred and eighty degrees, and begins to work on my pitifully short hamstrings (too much sitting, not enough stretching). "Can you dance?" she goes on, as she uses her thumbs to work deeper into the tissue. I flinch before trying to relax into the pressure, and she eases up slightly. "Actually, yes," I reply, "Grandmamma taught me, when I was about fifteen. She was a proper old martinet, was my father's mother, and she was quite determined that her awkward, gawky grandson should have at least some social graces. So she taught me to dance by treading on my toes until I learnt how to waltz, foxtrot, and do a passable, if rather ungainly, quickstep." Ruth is laughing silently; I can feel her shaking as she slides her hands down to my calf muscles, and I chuckle myself. "Grandmamma weighed about 15 stone, so I fairly soon became adept at getting out of her way – and it turned out, for someone who didn't play sport, I was actually quite coordinated. I haven't done it in decades though – well, people don't, nowadays, do they?"

Ruth sits up for a moment, and I can feel her soft bottom, swathed in the sheet, resting against mine. I close my eyes and will the blood now rushing downwards to divert itself elsewhere, with scant success. "They still do if they go to a formal ball," she volunteers, and there is something in the quality of her tone which makes me wonder where this line of thought is coming from. I don't have to wonder very long; her next statement is "Like the Security Services ball next month, for example…" I twist around to look at her, and am rewarded with the sight of her sheet-clad bottom hovering in the air as she leans far forward to reach the lower aspects of my calves. "Ruth, are you inviting me to go with you?" I put the question to her, and she turns from her work to reply, grinning, "I thought you'd never ask!" And just like that, apparently, we are going to the Security Services ball. _Together._ I hate to do it, but I have to ask. "Um, I'd love to take you, but aren't you worried that…people…will see us?"

Ruth laughs, and says, "Giles and Susan, remember?" My heart sinks – _does she mean for us to go as platonic friends, not as a couple?_ – and then she adds, "Besides, I don't think anyone else from work will go. Harry won't, he's been griping about the idea of it for weeks – he told me he'd rather spend the night playing drinking games with an active IRA cell – and Danny doesn't want to go now Zoe's left, so he's put in to do the night relief shifts that weekend. Adam and Fiona might go, but they'll be too wrapped up in each other to notice us if they do, and Sam's already got plans to visit her family in Edinburgh – it's her mother's birthday, I think she said – so I don't see the harm, do you?" _Oh, yes,_ I think, _I most certainly do,_ but how can I say no to her? At the back of my mind, a tiny alarm begins to sound, but for once in my overly cautious life, I choose to ignore it. _I'll think about that later…_

Instead, I catch the end of the sheet which is tucked under Ruth's arms, and with a deft twitch I pull her down to lie next to me, telling her, "It's your turn now". And so it is, until she is glowing from my ministrations, and arching her body towards me in anticipation. Grandmamma needn't have trodden on my toes – it seems I'm a fast learner when it comes to physical matters, after all. This time, Ruth climaxes before me, and I feel like one of the ancient Greek gods. Not Apollo, driving the sun chariot across the sky, or Zeus, the supreme Olympian, but more like Hephaestus, the god of all things technical, father of metalcraft and weaponry, yet peace-loving and gentle…the god married to Aphrodite…the god, I try to forget, that was cuckolded by Ares. Powerful, masculine Ares, the god of war…and then the world around me dissolves into pure physical sensation, sight, movement, and sound blurring together, as I surrender to Ruth at last.


	22. Chapter 22

For the rest of the day, we sleep, raid the kitchen for duvet-picnics to bring back to bed with us, make love (again, and yet again, proving that practice does indeed make perfect), and talk, about everything and nothing. We already have a lot in common, and yet there is still so much to learn about each other, and so few opportunities like this, in which to simply follow where the conversation leads us, with no briefings, meetings, tasks, or other people to interrupt. It feels as if we are suspended in time, enjoying a rare respite from the hectic pace of our everyday lives. When I gently suggest upgrading the security of her home, however, Ruth is surprisingly reluctant, saying that she doesn't want to feel like she is living on the Grid (even though we both know that to all intents and purposes, she just about does). I protest strenuously, pointing out the many entry points and weaknesses of the Victorian semi-detached she rents, but to my surprise, Ruth is adamant. I don't understand it...she's only just been abducted, threatened, traumatised…most women would be demanding every home and personal security device available, but all my carefully reasoned logic, quoting of Service rules and regulations, and finally, pleading – it is all for nothing. For the first time, I encounter another side of Ruth, as stubborn as…as a _mule!_

She does, however, allow me to boost the efficiency of the central heating by splicing an additional line in from the street lighting cable which happens to run beneath her front garden. It's a simple enough job, and it's the least I can do for her. Besides, when I consider the service that Ruth has given to her country, I don't think anyone will begrudge her a few free kilowatts of our ridiculously overpriced electricity, and it has been an unseasonably cold Spring, too. Soon, her house is warm throughout, and her cats are finding new places to curl up beneath the merrily ticking radiators. Digging out the radiator key from the kitchen drawer, my final act of domestic maintenance is to bleed the long-disused system of air, and I smile to hear the gurglings and rattlings that follow my progress from room to room, shortly to be replaced by blissful warmth everywhere. It gives me a vast amount of pleasure to do something so low-tech for once, and I like feeling useful around her house. If only she would let me install, at least, a better security solution for the front door, seeing as that old Yale lock could be breached in seconds...

As twilight begins to fall, I know that Mother will be anxious to see me, and so, after showering together – another completely novel experience for me, but one I am very keen to repeat, now that I have glimpsed a whole new _universe _of sensuality – I take my leave, but not before Ruth has assured me that she will be alright alone, despite the shadows that I see lurking in the back of her eyes. "If you need me, for anything, just call – I'll be here straight away…I don't like to leave you, but Mother…" Ruth nods, and tells me to go, she'll be fine, and to stop fussing over her like an anxious hen with one chick. I smile ruefully at the analogy – I know that I have a tendency to overreact, rather, where people I care about are concerned – and after a final, dizzying, embrace just inside the front door, I go out into the rapidly approaching night; and that's when the story of Ruth and I truly begins.

If there is one thing that is almost unbelievably difficult, it is to successfully keep a secret within a secret organisation. The people one works with are nosy by nature, adept at reading looks, micro-expressions, even one's unconscious body language; they have almost unfettered access to information systems, and most of them have no compunction about using their skills and training against their own colleagues, if they wish to find something out badly enough. Neither Ruth nor I are ready to publicly admit to there being anything between us, albeit for different reasons – hers, an almost paralysing fear of being talked about behind her back, mine, an equally debilitating dread of what will happen when Harry finds out, allied with niggling doubts about Ruth's commitment to our fledgling relationship. I understand that she is determined to keep up appearances at work, and if that means that she continues to sit at Harry's right hand in meetings and occasionally gaze across the Grid, more or less surreptitiously, at the inner sanctum, then so be it. For my part, I do my best to carry on as I have always done. It seems to work.

Our relationship's greatest protection is also the simplest: the mere fact that it seems so unlikely. The middle-aged geek, shy and awkward with women, and the brilliant analyst, twelve years younger, but with a hairline crack running through her personality, rendering her uncertain of her own abilities, and with a tendency to depression. Oh yes, I know about that. I have known her for too long not to have put two and two together, and found that it made four. It only makes me love her more, when I see how she rises above it, time after time; but there is another, darker edge to it too, one that worries me, and which I am determined to keep her away from. I am acquainted rather too well with the black dog, as Churchill described it, myself – but then, which of us in the Service are not, unless they are that rarest and most terrifying of humans, a full-blown psychopath. And I pray that there are none of those walking amongst us…

We do not arrive at work together, nor leave at the same time, nor spend all our free moments together; and while we are on the Grid, we each wear a mask of professionalism, and for the moment, we seem to have gotten away with it. Or so I think, until early one morning, before anyone else is on the Grid, when Colin fixes me with his most direct "no-nonsense" look, and enquires, "Malcolm, what the hell do you think you're doing?" Feigning incomprehension, I look up from _The_ _Times'_ crossword page, and raise an eyebrow in mild interest. "Currently, I'm drinking a mug of your frankly rather abysmal tea, doing number 4-across in this morning's cryptic, running a meta-search on possible Iranian extremists resident in the greater London metropolitan area, then cross-matching them with known terror cells associated with a particularly abhorrent branch of Islamic fundamentalism. Oh, and fixing this little number, here," I reply, using tweezers to hold up an earwig which had Danny had lost during a particularly violent encounter with…well, that doesn't really matter. Colin rolls his eyes impatiently and replies sarcastically, "Oh, you're so funny. You know what I mean – you, and Ruth. How long's that been going on?"

Fifteen years as a spook can stiffen the spine of anyone who lives that long, give them invisible armour against unexpected personal enquiries, train them to be so smoothly and thoroughly deceptive that even their own mother couldn't tell if they were speaking the truth or not…anyone except me, that is. I know I don't have a poker face, that my eyes give me away instantly, and that I am not brave enough to risk the thin ice of lies and deceit that the rest of Section D seems to take positive delight in skating on. Besides, Colin knows me better than anyone else on the Grid, and I can hear the undertone of concern in his question. I turn my attention back to the crossword, trying to buy time in which to marshal my thoughts and get my rapidly escalating heart rate back under control, not to mention my breathing, which is becoming shallower by the moment. No such luck, though, as Colin snatches the paper from my hands and swivels my chair ninety degrees to face him squarely. To my horror, I can feel heat rising in my face as Colin scrutinises me from close quarters. He nods once, grimly. "I thought so. Are you out of your oversized mind?" _Well, maybe I am, come to that, _I think, but do not say…_but if being in love is how going mad feels, then I'll have some more please, thank you very much. _

Colin sighs, and I can see frustration and compassion warring in his eyes. "But surely you know she fancies Harry like mad, don't you? I mean, the whole place knows…there's been a book running for ages on whether they'll get together or not!" I blink in confusion as I scramble to catch up with Colin's train of thought…and then it hits me, and I don't know whether to laugh or cry: my best friend thinks that there is nothing more than a hopelessly one-sided crush. It hasn't even occurred to him that there might be another, happier possibility…the irony of it all would be delicious, if it weren't tinged with bitterness. I bury my hands in my face, ostensibly in embarrassment, but in reality, it's a desperate bid to compose myself. In a clumsy but well-meant attempt at consolation, Colin offers, "She's not all that much to look at, anyway, I mean, she's OK, but nothing like Zoe, or Sam, is she? And she's completely stuck on Harry, for god knows what reason – he's old enough to be her father. Daddy issues there, probably. Take it from me, you're well out of it." I look up, and my face must alarm him, because he backtracks slightly with, "Not that she's unattractive, and she's certainly smart enough, it's just, just that I don't think she really sees us, you know? Yeah, we're clever gadgets on demand, and hacking whatever system they want to poke round in, and sitting cooped up in the obbo van to all hours, and we even do their bloody IT support, but we're not field spooks, and we're sure as hell not Harry."

All my anger towards Colin drains away then, as I hear him voicing my own concerns regarding my relationship with Ruth. We sit in silence for a few seconds, and then he asks, "So, are you OK? I didn't know whether to say anything or not, but you're my best mate, and I was worried about you. Still am, actually, seeing as you haven't said anything… hey, you're not going to cry, are you?" My chest, which has been growing tighter and tighter as this excruciating, one-sided conversation has continued and my fear and anxiety has grown, has now reached the point where I am beginning to heave for breath, and I suppose it could look like a man on the verge of tears. I shake my head and dig through the pockets of my suit jacket where it hangs on the back of my chair, unable to speak. Sudden understanding lights up Colin's face, and he swiftly flicks me an inhaler from my desk drawer. I seize on it gratefully, and then as the medication begins to work, I mumble, "Thanks, and thanks for your concern too, but really, we're just friends…" I give him what is meant to be a reassuring smile, but I fear that it fails parlously, as Colin favours me with another long look over his glasses, before wisely deciding not to pursue the matter further.

Instead, he switches topics, proposing that we hold a _Doctor Who_ marathon this weekend to watch the entire new series. Again, I try for ignorance, but Colin is not to be fooled. "Oh, come_ on_, Malcolm, you had Buckley's keeping that hidden round here! I knew that wasn't old news archive footage in the Beeb courier bag a few weeks ago…there's a waiting list for it, you know. Adam wants to borrow it the next time Wes is home for the weekend, and one of the front desk staff is dying to see it – he's a big Billie Piper fan, apparently," this last, said with Colin's own version of a ribald wink and nudge - "Can't say I blame him, myself. She's some top totty, right?!" I look disapprovingly at him, before he remembers that I don't like to hear women referred to in those sorts of terms – it's disrespectful, as far as I'm concerned, and there is enough disrespect, not to mention outright hatred, in the world already.

It's moments like these which make me recall that Colin is so much younger than me – he'd be about the same age as Ruth, actually. Rather selfishly, I had been planning to introduce her to the latest incarnation of the show I grew up with, before sharing it with anyone else (she's never seen a single episode, which simply beggars belief) but suddenly it seems like a good idea to spend some time with Colin, off the Grid, doing the sorts of things that unattached men do with their equally unattached male friends. Neither of us are interested in sport (Colin refers to rugby union as Thugby, and to rugby league as Mugby, to Harry's intense annoyance) but we do sometimes spend an afternoon off in one of the nice riverside pubs around Richmond, or browsing through the spyware shops that have sprung up around London since 9/11. The Service likes us to stay on top of what the average paranoid punter in the street can buy over the counter if he suddenly decides to have his own personal James Bond moment. Most of the stuff on offer is laughable to us, of course, and ridiculously overpriced, but occasionally things slip in which have no business being in the hands of ordinary citizens. _Civilians_, Harry calls them, and in my estimation, that's just about right. "What about this Sunday, then, for _Who_?" I ask, and Colin agrees. I make a mental note to tell Mother – she has met Colin before, and approves of him, what's more – and then we turn back to our work.

A few days later, Ruth is detained on the Grid due to a routine observation op going somewhat pear-shaped; we had planned to meet for dinner after work, and I have to swallow my disappointment as we deal with yet another crisis, and yet another murky, morally compromised lot of human beings. Par for the course, in this job, but there are days when all the hot water in the world is not enough to wash away the taint of corruption and questionable ethics (or complete lack thereof) which has begun to seep into the Service in the last few years. That's why Harry is such a rarity in our business, a man who knows what he believes and acts on it; but during the next few days, I sense more than the usual amount of tension and irritation emanating from him, and Ruth is suddenly spending odd moments of time with him, time which does not appear to be related to the operation at hand. Whatever she is doing, she certainly has his full attention, as she buttonholes him walking across the Grid, waylays him in his office, or catches him coming out of the briefing room. I say nothing, of course, but watch and wait, and do my part, as ever, biding my time until life-outside-the-Grid resumes once more, which it does, late on a Friday night.

Seeing as we are now three days late for our original reservation, I apologise profusely to the maitre'd; but he has no tables free, and no inclination to give us one even if he did have. "What sort of people can't even call to cancel a reservation?" he wants to know, and just for the tiniest moment, I am sorely tempted to tell him; and then Ruth slips her hand into the crook of my arm, and says, "It doesn't matter, we can go anywhere …I'm so hungry I could eat a horse!" I look down at her, and she smiles encouragingly at me. "Look, over there, by the water – isn't that a chippy?" And she tows me towards the brightly-lit stall, following the unmistakable aroma of malt vinegar slathered over hot, crisp chips, with the salty tang that always reminds me of the seaside. This is not what I had in mind for our date, and I say so, but Ruth simply grins at me and orders us each a paper cone of cod and chips (extra vinegar on hers), saying, "I'll get this, you can pay next time. And it's fine, Malcolm, really it is - I love fish and chips!"

Which is how I come to find myself, sitting on a bench, one fine summer's night somewhere on the Embankment, taking careful note of the CCTV coverage in the area, and eating fish and chips with Ruth, as happy as two teenagers out on their very first date. Except that this isn't, and mercifully, we're not teenagers; afterwards, we take a cab back to her house, where we make up for three days of lost time, before curling into each other, satiated at last, and falling asleep. _I have never been so happy in my life,_ is my final, semi-coherent thought…_fish, chips, and Ruth…like that bit in the Rubaiyat…how does it go again? _Then sleep claims me, and I know nothing except the peaceful warmth of Ruth's presence in the darkness beside me.

_A Book of Verses underneath the Bough,  
A Jug of Wine, a Loaf of Bread-and Thou  
Beside me singing in the Wilderness-  
Oh, Wilderness were Paradise enow!_

**A/N: The poem Malcolm is thinking of is one of the ruba'i of Omar Khayyam. Also, thanks to those who are reading and reviewing - I really appreciate it ;)**


	23. Chapter 23

The annual Security Services Ball is held on Midsummer's Eve – that's no secret – but the location most certainly is. Harry disparagingly refers to whatever venue is selected (usually a large country house, or a hotel which can be easily secured) as Toad Hall – full of rats, moles, and weasels. In all the years I have known him, he has attended the Ball only three times, including the occasion just after I joined the Service, when I took my mother, and he charmed her utterly by telling her the most outrageous lies about my workplace activities. Harry detests these sorts of occasions, where he is expected to don white tie and then… _schmooze,_ I think the American colloquialism is, the great and the not-so-good of the British intelligence community. On the one hand, he says that more back-room deals, dangerous liaisons, and "gentlemen's agreements" are made on that night than during an entire year's worth of JIC, Contingent Events Committee, or any of the half-dozen or so other dreary meetings he is compelled to attend on a regular basis. On the other, he compares it unfavourably to wading blind through a cess-pit filled with poisonous vipers.

I know all this, and yet whenever Ruth mentions it, I feel unaccountably ill-at-ease about the whole thing. She is certainly very set on going; she has bought, she tells me, a new dress ("_it was_ _far too expensive, but I think you'll like it_…"), has made an appointment to get herself "done", whatever that might entail – I'm still sufficiently shy of some of the more practical details of femininity to happily remain in blissful ignorance – and I know not how, but she has ensured that we are both rostered off for the weekend. She has also been hard at work trying to discover the location of Toad Hall for this year, and after tapping all her sources at GCHQ, Scotland Yard, Six, and the Home Office, she has narrowed it down to three possibilities; a very plush hotel in Belgravia, well known to me as the location of many successful bugging operations; a renovated manor house in Hertfordshire called Havensworth, which has recently been accredited with a Level 8 security clearance as being suitable for foreign and domestic dignitaries, and (the outside contender) Windsor Castle, as the Queen has already removed to Balmoral for her annual holiday. I rather hope it is not the Belgravia hotel – it would be lovely to get out of central London for a change.

By tradition and necessity, the location is kept secret until the day before the Ball, when it is sent by encrypted message to ticket holders, followed by the passcodes needed to gain entry to the venue; and a security dossier has to be completed and returned for each guest, including details of their occupation, rank, and personal appearance for the night of the Ball. As the ticket holder, I receive the message; but I need to consult with Ruth when it comes to the details of her intended personal appearance. I have heard horror stories about officers who have been refused admission because their partner's hair colour had changed; there's nothing more paranoid than a gathering of the intelligence community.

Surreptitiously, I message Ruth in classical Greek, requesting to know the exact colour of her dress, and she replies in succinct Latin, _Aqua. Ubi est?_ I smile at her impatient enquiry, and reply, _Herts. _ She answers,_ Perfectus_, and then Harry shouts for her from the briefing room, and Colin comes back from a routine surveillance operation, overflowing with the need to talk to me after having been cooped up by himself in the van for six hours straight, and the rest of the day is taken up with the sort of administrative minutiae that even a senior technical officer must sometimes contend with, no matter how many languages he speaks or how big his brain may be.

At five p.m. on Saturday, I call for Ruth, thinking back to the night, almost six months ago, that I had first taken her out to the scratch Requiem, and marvelling at what changes have been wrought in our lives since then. I still cannot quite believe that Ruth is really with me; each morning that I wake up beside her is like a miracle, and she can take my breath away simply by walking into the briefing room or crossing the Grid. I don't think I will ever get used to having her in my life. There is a delicate synergy between us that I have never experienced with anyone else, and I cherish it. Hastening to her front door, I ring the bell twice – two long rings, for _M_ in Morse code, and wait for her to appear. There is a rustling noise as she descends the staircase, and then she is smiling at me as she opens the door. Her hair has been swept up into an elegant, unfamiliar style which exposes the back of her neck, but she is wearing some sort of long, dark wrapper over her dress, and I can't see it. I surmise that she must be planning to make a grand impression –well, I _have_ observed enough women arriving at these sorts of events to know how important that sort of thing is – and she reaches up on tiptoe to kiss me hello, before allowing me to escort her to the car. I have decided against taking my rather distinctive Rover tonight; instead I have hired a comfortable, but generic, late model European sedan - black, of course – what other colour would a spook choose?

Havensworth House is not far from the M25, off Junction 22, and Ruth proves that she is an able navigator as we motor through the countryside, now at its Summer best, verdant and lush, chatting about the passing scenery, the lovely warm evening, the anticipation of the evening ahead, just like any other couple. I begin to relax as we leave London behind, glad to be out of that concentration of humanity for a time. I love London, but at heart, I'm still that boy who grew up in a small community in Wales, and there are times when I miss the gentle pace of that simpler, long-vanished life. Sometimes, I think I would have been quite happy as a Cambridge don, or a headmaster, or even a clergyman like my father; but then, I remind myself, I would never have joined the Service, never have known Tom, or Colin, or poor, lost Lucas North…I would never have met Harry, nor fallen in love with Ruth. On balance, I feel that the positives of working for Five outweigh the negatives, at least in my case… there are also, tragically, the Helens (a lovely girl, and what a hideous way to die), the Tessas, treacherous and bitter, the Zoes, betrayed by a system which should have protected her…with difficulty I bid the black dog leave me alone, as I force my mind back to the business at hand; the business of being seen, in a semi-public place, with Ruth, on what could only be construed as a date. I don't know about Ruth, but my days of acting as her brother Giles are long over; there is too much intimacy between us now. I steal a look out of the corner of my eye, and as I see her curled on the seat, her feet tucked under her in the way she loves to sit, counting the junctions as we move around the ring road that Londoners only semi-jokingly refer to as the world's largest circular car park, I feel an overwhelming sense of wonder, followed by deep gratitude that she is here at all.

As we approach the hotel, I note that is set in walled and gated grounds, and after passing through a number of checkpoints, the main building comes into sight at the end of a gravel carriage sweep. _Late Georgian_, I think, _with some rather ostentatious Victorian embellishments_ – but I can immediately see the appeal of the place, from a security standpoint. It would be easy to throw a tight security cordon around the building itself, and from the array of antennae and satellite dishes behind the hotel, it appears to boast state of the art communications. Tonight, there are dark-suited security officers stationed strategically around the gracious old house, and as we approach the main entrance I can see another team directing guests through portable full-body scanners, looking for hidden weapons or any sort of anomaly. Short of carrying out DNA matching for each attendee, everything possible is being done to ensure our security. There is even a RAF Bell Griffin helicopter at altitude, lazily circling the property in slow sweeps like an eagle on an updraft. Nothing has been overlooked or left to chance. No-one is going to get within striking distance of the hotel unless they are on the list.

The final step in gaining admittance, conducted just within the elegantly colonnaded portico, is to match everyone to the exact details of their personal security dossier, and this requires Ruth to remove her coat. She turns away from me so that I can help her out of the garment, and as I hold it for her, she frees herself with a deft little movement; and I am left speechless as she slowly pirouettes before me, eyes shining, smiling in a way that I can only describe as triumphant, at my reaction. Aqua, indeed; I realise she meant, _water_, because this is exactly what the dress looks like; water, woven. It is made of some sort of heavy fabric - silk, perhaps - and it shimmers with the colours of Ruth's eyes; blue, from palest aquamarine to the deepest navy, shot through with green and flecked with silver. There are tiny, iridescent beads stitched on at random, giving the appearance of a sunlit ocean as Ruth turns around before my admiring gaze.

Looking closer, I realise that this is no ordinary evening gown; the whole style of it is from another era._ Edwardian_, I decide, looking at the fishtail train and the low, square neckline – I have seen enough of our own family portraits and photographs to be able to tell one century's style from another. Even while the analytical part of my brain is busily fact-gathering, another, more primitive part is responding in a much more direct way; she looks _stunning_, her sweetly curving figure set off to perfection, just a hint of cleavage apparent, the upswept hairstyle she has chosen showing off her back and neck, the artfully draped folds of fabric in the train accentuating her hips…breathtaking! She wears no jewellery; the dress needs none. I have never seen her wear anything like this before - I want to look at her in it forever, yet remove it immediately, too. Finally my higher faculties begin to reassert themselves, and the power of speech returns. "Ruth, do you know you're the most beautiful woman here, and that tonight, I count myself the most fortunate man in the world? You look…perfect. Glorious. Spectacular. Sublime…would you like me to go on?" She smiles, then, and says, "I knew I just had to have it. Nothing else would do once I had tried it on. I'm so pleased you like it…" The desk officer who is checking our dossiers waves us on, and we continue up the wide front steps and into Havensworth House.

We are now standing just beyond the cloakroom in the entrance hall, other couples and guests moving past us, and I can hear the strains of music drifting from the ballroom, a Strauss waltz…suddenly, I remember that I have something for Ruth, in the pocket of my dinner jacket. I extract the flat, black velvet box, and, suddenly shy, hold it out to her. "This is for you…a little something to remember tonight by..." Eyes wide, she takes the box and slowly opens it, then gasps as she sees the blue diamond solitaire pendant nestling inside. She looks up at me, and now it is her turn to be rendered speechless…I carefully lift the necklace out and with fingers that tremble only slightly, I fasten the fine gold chain around her neck. Ruth shakes her head, but even as she does, her hand is stealing towards the necklace, to touch it in disbelief. "Malcolm, I can't…you shouldn't have…this is too much!" she protests, but the way her eyes light up tells another tale. "It looks beautiful, you can, yes, I absolutely should have, and no, it's not," I gently counter, "besides, it's rather a special stone…I chose it in Hatton Garden, when I returned the other diamonds, after…you know. When I saw the colour of it, it didn't seem right that anyone else should have it…" Ruth looks up at me, and I am dismayed to see her eyes are glistening with unshed tears. "It's just that no-one has ever given me anything so precious before…I don't know what to say…" I take both her hands and draw her towards me, saying as I do so, "Thank you is the usual thing, I believe…and thank you, too." She looks questioningly at me, and I lean forward to whisper in her ear, "You've changed my life...and I love you for it." Ruth seems not to know whether to laugh or cry, so in an attempt to amuse her, I straighten up and make her a formal bow, just as Grandmamma taught me all those years ago. 'Miss Evershed, would you do me the honour of permitting me to claim the first dance?" And with that Ruth makes a half curtsey of her own and says, "Mr Wynn-Jones, you may have every dance!" before laughing at our sudden formality, as she takes my arm and we enter Toad Hall.


	24. Chapter 24

**A/N – Thanks again to my faithful readers and reviewers – you know who you are! Just kicking things up a notch here…**

The ballroom has not changed much since Havensworth was built; it is still a finely proportioned room with French windows opening to a paved terrace, old crystal chandeliers rewired for modern electricity, a musicians' gallery (currently occupied by a string quartet), an array of balloon-backed chairs and little tables scattered along the walls, and at the far end, a long mahogany bar, which is currently the focal point for most of the men, and not a few women, in the room. I can sense Ruth's nervousness and excitement as we enter the room, and then the attention of others turning upon us momentarily. I stand a little taller, feeling as proud as a lord to have her on my arm, and sweep the room with a casual, yet all-encompassing glance. _Who else is here, and should I be worried_, are the two questions uppermost in my mind, as I assess men, all looking oddly alike in white tie, and elegantly turned out women. I recognise several operatives from Six, a smattering of GCHQ types, clustered together by the bar, a few people from other sections within Five, most of whom won't know us by sight, and a number of politicos that I immediately determine to avoid at all costs. Then there are the various plus-ones, none of whom I have ever seen before, nor ever expect to see again.

The room is filled with the low buzz of people chattering and laughing, the chink of glasses and lovely, lilting music – Strauss' _Tales from the Vienna Woods_, if memory serves. It looks like any of a hundred other Midsummer balls taking place across the country tonight, except for the guests. On the surface, they are enjoying themselves like any convocation of men in penguin suits and women in evening gowns; they talk, they drink, some of them are trundling around the dance floor with varying degrees of competency, and from the far corner guffaws of male laughter pinpoint the location of a raconteur holding court. But there the similarities with other social gatherings end.

There is a frisson in the air, barely detectable unless one is a highly trained surveillance officer or field agent: the crackle and hum of intelligence on the move as it is gathered, traded, shared, tucked away for future reference…covert glances, tiny signals telegraphed across the room, talk in dark alcoves, ears inclined to overhear conversations not meant to be shared. To my trained eye, it seems that everyone at Havensworth is running an operation tonight, and for a moment I feel queasy with nerves; and then I feel Ruth's hand tighten on my arm, and I realise she is just as nervous. Somehow, just knowing that she feels the same way is enough to dissipate the sense of foreboding which has come over me, and I lead her to one of the small, marble-topped tables against the wall, sufficiently secluded that we are able to talk without fear of being overheard. Ruth settles at the table while I fetch drinks – champagne for her, red wine for me – and wend my way back. I begin to appreciate Harry's comparison to a pit of vipers as I make my way through the glittering, noisy throng, and can't help but wonder why Ruth has set her heart on tonight. This world of superficial chatter and shifting shadows, where nothing is quite as it seems, sets my teeth on edge; but she seems to be drinking it all in, eyes shining with excitement as she surveys the room from the safe haven of our table.

As I set our drinks down, Ruth excuses herself, and glides in the direction of the ladies' room. I hope she is tough enough to make it back in one piece – I can't think of anything more terrifying than a gathering of female spooks at close quarters. Still, Ruth has an admirable degree of self-possession, and a chameleon-like ability to fade into the background – although given the way she looks tonight, I doubt that deploying her usual evasive strategy is an option. As I sit, waiting for her, I take the opportunity to conduct a secondary situation analysis, and plan exit strategies if needed. I remember Harry once told me, not long after I had joined, that the surest sign of an old spy is to take note of where they sit in a room; back against the wall, facing the entrance, is the preferred position, all the better to conduct reconnaissance.

Whether subconsciously or not, this is the exact location I have chosen for us…after a few minutes have passed, I begin to cast an anxious eye about the room, trying to see if Ruth has already emerged. Just as I am beginning to contemplate getting up to look for her, she reappears, hastening towards me, smiling, and carrying a plate piled high with food. "I'm so sorry, the queue in the Ladies' was ridiculous, and then it occurred to me that I was starving, so I stopped by the buffet and picked up something for us to eat," she begins, setting the plate down on the table between us. Smoked salmon canapés, bread rolls with butter, some slices of rare roast beef rolled around horseradish cream, and Coronation chicken in lettuce leaf cups – typical summer buffet fare, but nicely done, and I realise that I, too, am hungry – and not just for food…I am suddenly very glad that I have had the foresight to book a room upstairs for the night.

After we have eaten, we sit back and watch the room for a while, Ruth commenting on that woman's dress or speculating on the identity of this man. She recognises a few people by sight, people she has met fleetingly at security briefings or seen operational files for, but so far, no one seems to have noticed us at all, other than the waiters who clear our glasses. We are each on our third drink, and I am feeling relaxed and more confident than usual, when the quartet strikes up the _Emperor Waltz_, and the next thing I know, Ruth is pulling me to my feet. "Come on! I want to see if all the toe-treading was worth it…" and before I can protest, she is leading me to the dance floor. There are quite a few couples taking a turn; some are professional operatives, working on their seduction skills, while others, by the way they move together, are long term partners. We find a clear space and join the other dancers; there is not enough room for the flying steps of the Viennese waltz, so I begin a slow waltz with Ruth, instead. At first she giggles as she missteps, but while Grandmamma might have taught me how to dance, my father, tall and graceful, taught me how to lead, and it's not long before we are moving nicely around the floor, Ruth proving to be a quick learner in this as in everything else she does.

Our bodies, which are becoming accustomed to fitting together in other ways, soon grow used to this new one-two-three movement, and as we dance I am able to concentrate more on how I am feeling, and less on our footwork. And how I am feeling, quite frankly, is spectacular. To have Ruth in my arms like this is wonderful, and I become aware that some of the other couples have stopped dancing to watch us. I add a couple of flourishes as the floor thins out, and Ruth is smiling at me, her diamond pendant winking in the chandeliers' light, as we swing around and around. Finally, the music ends, and with a little bow, I lead Ruth from the floor to a smattering of light applause, both of us blushing with pleasure and embarrassment at being the unaccustomed centre of attention. We make our way back to our table, before I have to excuse myself, leaving Ruth sitting happily people-watching, her eyes flitting occasionally towards the entrance to the ballroom. As I leave her, it seems to me that she has a faintly expectant air, almost as if she is waiting for someone…_Don't be so silly_, I chide myself. _She's here with me, isn't she?_

When I come back a few minutes later, it is to an empty table, but I do not worry unduly…until I see where she is, and worse, who she is with. Somehow, I hadn't spotted him before, even from my prime surveillance position; _how long has he been here, and what has he seen?_ Panicked thoughts skitter through my mind as I struggle to make sense of the scene before my appalled eyes. The hairs on the back of my neck rise, and I feel ill, my breathing suddenly tightening as my diaphragm tenses; can it be that Ruth is actually _dancing_ with him…how could she? _Oh, Ruth…_


	25. Chapter 25

**A/N: We all know this is an M-rated fic, right? If not, consider this fair warning for the next couple of chapters…this one mildly so, the next one not quite so mild.**

Oliver Mace, JIC Chair though he may be, is a man who repulses me, with his unctuous, self-satisfied voice, murky motives, and highly questionable methods. When he attempted to take over the Grid in the wake of Tom turning rogue (unthinkable, and in the end, not true) and shooting Harry, all of Section D developed a hearty dislike for him, but for me it goes deeper; I can hardly stand to be near the man, so unsettling do I find him. I hesitate to use such a word about anyone, but there is an air of evil about him, a miasma of darkness that follows him and taints us all. His reptilian eyes chill me to the core, the blackness in them testament to the unspeakable things he has seen and ordered done. He seems to bear a special malice towards Harry, in particular; Harry, who still holds certain old-fashioned principles and beliefs dear, will always be a thorn in the side of totally amoral and ruthless men such as Mace, for which I thank heaven, as the idea of a Britain fashioned in Mace's image fills me with deep fear. I had thought that Ruth felt similarly towards him, but now, as I watch her dance with the most dangerous man in the room, I am beginning to wonder if I know her at all. My knees refuse to hold me up any longer, so great is the shock; and I slump onto a chair, unable to tear my eyes away from this utterly incomprehensible sight.

Mace isn't dancing with Ruth as much as controlling her by main force, I soon realise; he looms over her menacingly as he shuffles about the floor, holding her uncomfortably close; and when he looks at her, beautiful in her sea-green dress, there is a predatory expression on his face that sickens me. I don't know what to do; presumably, Ruth must have accepted a dance with him, and I'm certain that she won't welcome it if I play the part of the jealous lover – besides, bravery is a thing which _terrifies_ me…and then they turn, so that I can see Ruth in profile, and every line of her body is rigid, her eyes enormous. In the same moment, his hands are suddenly all over her, and I can see her discomfort becoming fear as she tries to escape his groping, roving clutches, while he leers at her ineffectual attempts to free herself; suddenly, I am on my feet, striding towards them. My heart hammers as adrenaline floods my body in anticipation of a physical confrontation with Mace, who is actually laughing as Ruth begins to struggle in earnest, but I hold my nerve. If anyone else notices, they are evidently unwilling to risk a run-in with him; his reputation for holding a grudge and exacting his pound of flesh is legendary, and I doubt that any of them even know who Ruth is, or care, if they do. There's no backup here, no Special branch storm-troopers to charge in…only me, full of fear and trepidation, but determined to intervene.

As I approach, the acrid reek of whisky emanating from Mace is eye-wateringly strong, and Ruth's eyes fill with relief as she sees me. Next, I do something I have never done in my life; I pick a fight. Mace swings around unsteadily at my sharp tap on his shoulder, squinting to focus on me, and I can see that he is very, very drunk. Stepping right up to him, I say quietly, "Let her go, Oliver." He blinks in surprise as he recognises me, and snarls, "And if I don't, what are you going to do about it, little mousy Malcolm?" Amazed at how steady my voice is, I reply succinctly, "This," as I seize his right arm near the elbow, and dig in hard with my long, strong fingers, seeking the large ulnar and radial nerves; Mace sucks in his breath as pain begins to register in his alcohol-logged brain, so I increase the pressure until his hand opens involuntarily, nerves deadened by my grip, and Ruth is able to break free, twisting herself out of his clutches and delivering a raking kick to his shins, before stamping hard on his instep with her high heel, loathing plain on her face. Mace staggers at Ruth's parting shot, then attempts to swing at me with his free arm; I squeeze harder, and he gasps in agony, twisting in my grasp. I lock eyes with him, noting how glassy his stare is - he must have been drinking hard all evening to be in such an advanced state of inebriation – and in the same even tone of voice, I say, "I mightn't be a field officer, but I am very good with other things, such as practical anatomy…do you know what the vagus nerve is?" A spark of alarmed comprehension flares briefly in Mace's unfocused eyes, and he nods, raising his left hand in surrender. I release him and step back, hearing him curse under his breath as feeling begins to return to his arm – _most unpleasant for him, I shouldn't wonder_ – and the pain caused by Ruth's unexpected attack on his shins begins to assert itself. "Harry will hear about this," he slurs as I start to walk away, and I turn around, my heart clenching at those words, and at the sly look on his face, before reason asserts itself. "Oh, I don't think so, Oliver. If I tell him that you were on the point of raping her, which of us is Harry is going to believe? Yes, I rather think so, too," as I see his shoulders slump in admission of my unassailable logic. As Mace lurches off in the direction of the bar (_Good_, I think savagely, _hopefully he'll drink himself into a coma and won't even remember seeing us here_), I turn from the ballroom and go to find Ruth.

My first instinct is to look for her outside, certain that she will be seeking privacy and solitude in which to gather herself, so I step through one of the French doors, and walk along the terrace, relieved myself to be out in the soft evening air after the strain of the last few minutes; and sure enough, I soon spot Ruth on a bench at the far end of the terrace, under a magnificent old wisteria in full flower, its light perfume fragrancing the night. As I walk up to her, I see that she is holding something small and square in one hand – a powder compact, perhaps, by its metallic gleam - which she tucks into a fold of her dress as she hears me approach. She smiles tremulously at me, and I am filled with such an overwhelming sense of relief that she is safe – that we are both alright – that I begin to shake_. It's the adrenaline_, I realise, as I sink onto the bench next to her and wrap an arm around her shoulders, drawing her towards me. She allows me to, resting her head against my chest; and for a while, we simply sit silently, breathing together, each deep in our own thoughts. Mine go along the lines, at first, of _she's safe, thank God, she's safe,_ and then, _I can't believe I just DID that_, and then outrage at the deliberate lack of interest shown by any of the other guests – it just goes to show how powerful a man Mace is, and how far-reaching his insidious influence is – and then I begin to recall certain images which my brain had captured and filed away to consider once the danger was past. Mace, suddenly pulling Ruth to him and running his hands all over her – he had even tried to delve into her cleavage, the dirty dog! Ruth's odd look of fear as she fought him off, and the confusion on Mace's face when I first appeared… yes, something is off here, something is not as it seems, but what it is escapes my overstimulated mind. _Later_, I tell myself, _I'll think about it later..._

Eventually, the shaking eases, and I feel ready to speak. "What happened, Ruth?" She sits up to face me, and gives a little half shrug, surprisingly composed – she has a core of steel, I have begun to realise, for all her fragility and uncertainty, and it emerges at odd times, revealing her as one of the warrior band, in spirit if not in substance. "I was just sitting there, waiting for you, when Mace appeared out of nowhere and insisted on a dance. He was so drunk, he stank of it, but he wouldn't take no for an answer – and then I thought that perhaps it would just be easier to go along with him – I mean, what could happen in a room full of people? (_Plenty,_ I think to myself, _plenty, my trusting, naïve Ruth…) _And once we got on the floor, he was horrible, just horrible…the things he was saying to me… he wouldn't let me go, and then he started to maul me, and then…then you came…what did you _do_ to him?" Her voice holds a note of wonder; she's never seen me as anything other than a gentle and rather timid man, shying away from any sort of conflict – but then, nor have I. And yet, Nature shows us that even the most retiring of creatures will defend the ones it loves…and I love her, more than life itself.

I cough in embarrassment, then say, "Promise you won't laugh?" Ruth shakes her head, and looks at me gravely. "It's a little move that Tessa taught me once, but I never imagined I'd have occasion to use it. She said that even a physically incompetent technical officer like me should be able to immobilise an opponent, if they were discovered while doing field surveillance, and that it would give the real spooks one less thing to worry about, if an operation did go pear-shaped. So she showed me what to do – my arm was numb for days afterwards – and when I asked her where she had learnt it, she laughed and said, 'from Mossad – it's what they teach their female recruits, because you would never be able to manage what they teach the males' - those were her exact words". I wince at the recollection, both from the memory of the pain Tessa had caused me physically, and of the barbed little comments she had made while doing it.

Ruth frowns slightly, then replies softly, "Tessa was a snake, but I am very glad she taught you that…and for the record, I don't think you're physically incompetent in the slightest…quite the opposite, in fact." Even by moonlight, I can see her blush as she says this, and the air between us takes on a few more degrees of warmth, as I flush in response to this unlooked-for praise, and my adrenaline surges again, this time seeking a very different sort of resolution. From the ballroom windows, music drifts out, and I smile as I recognise the beginning of the tune. Getting to my feet, I assist Ruth to rise, saying, "We've only had one dance, after all…may I have this one?" She looks towards the ballroom; I can read her reluctance to go back inside, and quickly add, "Out here, just the two of us, and the moon…it is Midsummer's Eve, after all…" Ruth's eyes sparkle as she answers, "_'Lulled in these flowers, by dances and delight'_, do you mean, like Titania?" I slide one hand around her waist, take her hand with the other, and we begin a slow foxtrot to the old Cole Porter song, _In the Still of the Night, _the words of the chorus revolving in my mind even as I am swamped by the sensations aroused by Ruth's physical proximity:

_Do you love me, as I love you  
Are you my life to be, my dream come true  
Or will this dream of mine fade out of sight  
Like the moon growing dim, on the rim of the hill  
In the chill, still, of the night..._

As we dance, I can feel Ruth pressing closer to me, her body moulding to mine as we move, and when I kiss her, her response is immediate and demanding – _residual adrenaline response_, I think dazedly – and then, we are not dancing any more at all, but are somehow leaning next to the twisted trunk of the wisteria, while we kiss and fondle and caress and touch, and showers of purple petals are falling around us as Ruth, with her back against the wall that supports the old vine, hooks her lower leg around mine and whispers things I have never heard her say…things that I would dearly love to follow through on, right here and now, if only it weren't for the fact that I am still marginally aware of the security officers patrolling the perimeter of the building, and of the night-vision-equipped helicopter circling above Havensworth.

With my arms on either side of Ruth, braced against the rough brick, I strive for control, even as her hands slide around my waist to meet in the small of my back, under my dinner jacket, before drifting further down to hold me firmly against her lower body. "Ruth…we should go in…upstairs…we could be seen, out here…" I groan as she changes position slightly to press her hips against mine and smiles up at me archly. "They'll just think it's Midsummer madness…I'm sure we won't be the only ones taking advantage of the lovely night…" Her eyes are huge and luminous in the moonlight, and she looks otherworldly, in her shimmering dress, with her hair falling free from its formal style into loose tendrils around her neck, tendrils I want to twine around my fingers as I tip her head back to expose her throat to my kisses… I close my eyes for a moment, fighting to hold on to my last shred of rational thought, and Ruth shifts beneath me, seeming to slide downwards, down…my eyes open wide in shock as I realise her intent. I have seen it happen enough times during the course of my work, I know that most men seem to crave it, if not downright demand it…but I just can't come to terms with it… the act itself seems so selfish, and somehow degrading to one's partner; and in all the times that we have been together, I have never sought it nor wanted it. I force myself to step back, and Ruth looks up at me in confusion. "Not that, my darling," I tell her gently, and her eyes reflect her puzzlement, before she says, "I know we haven't done it before, but trust me, most men in your position would think they had just died and gone to heaven." I shrug uncomfortably, "Well, I'm not most men…" She dimples at that, and agrees, "No, you're not...sometimes, I think you're from another age altogether, and you still have a lot to learn about the twenty-first century..." I'm not sure what to make of that, until she continues, "_His square-turned joints, and strength of limb, __Showed him no carpet-knight so trim, But in close fight a champion_ _grim_… Malcolm, you're my knight in white tie, if not in shining armour."

With that, Ruth takes my hand and leads the way back inside, across the emptying ballroom, and up the sweeping oak staircase to our room.

**A/N: the lines of poetry Ruth quotes at the end are from Sir Walter Scott's **_**The Knight. **_


	26. Chapter 26

**A/N: This chapter is M rated. Very…**

_**The iron tongue of midnight hath told twelve: Lovers, to bed; tis almost fairy time - Shakespeare, A Midsummer Night's Dream**_

Ruth, eyes gleaming, tows me unresisting into our room, then pins me against the back of the door, seemingly intent on having her way with me here and now. "I can't wait any longer," she breathes into my ear, "I wanted you to take me against the wall outside…I need you _now_," and my head whirls at the force behind her words. I open my mouth to speak, but Ruth is having none of it, as we kiss again, and then time itself seems to splinter into tiny fragments of sensation…

_Her hands tugging at my belt and seizing me eagerly…_

_The heat of her breath on my skin as she opens my shirt and slides her hands inside, gliding over my skin from belly to shoulders as I quiver in pleasure…_

_The cool weight of the silk as I push her dress up, and up higher still…_

_The shape of her in my hands as I lift her up to meet me…_

_The unyielding oak of the door at my back as I brace our weight against it…_

_The strength of her as her thighs lock around me in a vicelike grip… _

_The searing heat which greets me as I finally take her in the way that she is begging me to…_

_Her breasts tantalising me as she arches her back in ecstasy_

_Her panting cries as we move together with frantic urgency…_

_Her hands clenching my shoulders as she comes with more intensity than I have ever seen, her head thrown back in wild abandon…_

_My ragged breathing as I tumble over the edge after her, with her name on my lips like a pagan prayer…_

My knees give way as we finish, and we slide down the door to sprawl on the plush carpet, Ruth still in my lap, both of us laughing in exhilaration at our impromptu liaison. Usually, our lovemaking is far more considered and careful (Ruth would probably say, polite and respectful) affair; this is the first time in my life that I have just been so caught up in the moment that I didn't even get undressed first! I blush to think of it, but Ruth simply stretches like a contented cat, and purrs, "Malcolm, that was _amazing_…"

_What a revelation adrenaline-fuelled sex is_, I muse through my euphoria, for that is what we have just enjoyed. Of course, some of our urgency was due to the long build-up over the course of the evening; but I very much doubt that we would have ended up against the door if not for that awful incident with Mace. It is as if I have emerged from a confining shell, like a butterfly from its chrysalis, into a new world of sensual freedom. I feel ten feet tall and as strong as a young man, as I gather Ruth into my arms and stand up, carrying her across the room, her long dress trailing like a mermaid's tail, and gently lie her across the bed; the moonlight filtering through sheer curtains gives the room an undersea, somewhat ethereal appearance, and the fine hairs on the back of my neck suddenly prickle as somewhere in the distance, a church bell tolls midnight…_This is a night when ancient magic is abroad_, I recollect dimly, as Ruth twines her arms around my back and pulls me down to her again, whispering her desires…

With the tiny part of my rational brain which is still functioning, I know that I should check the room for bugs – there's nothing more likely at Toad Hall than that a curious guest or two will have slipped a few into different rooms, just to see what they might catch – but with Ruth beneath me, and saying things to make me blush, it is getting increasingly difficult to think. With a tremendous effort of will, I murmur as softly as I can, "I should clean the house first," and when she hears the familiar operational phrase, she sighs, then reluctantly releases me. I have never conducted a counter-surveillance search so quickly, yet so thoroughly, and I am glad that I do, as I find no less than four.

Two are unimaginatively secreted behind picture frames on opposite walls, one (slightly better hidden) is in the cistern of the lavatory, and one is cunningly disguised as an extra button on the multi-device remote control for the sound system, satellite television channels, and DVD player. The one in the cistern I crush and flush – it's a common enough listening device, one used by Six as well as Five – but the other three I carefully deactivate before wrapping them in some foil from a Kit Kat in the mini-bar, and stashing them at the bottom of my overnight bag. None seem to be transmitters; rather they are older style recording devices, except for the remote-button bug, and I hypothesise that whoever planted them chose to use this variety, hoping to avoid detection by the standard security services anti-surveillance sweep that would have been conducted at Havensworth earlier this afternoon. I'm looking forward to studying them more closely…the bugs on the picture frames seem familiar, but the one from the remote control, that's something entirely new. I smile to myself as I imagine the discussion Colin and I will have…_I wonder what he would think if he could see me now…_

Meanwhile Ruth has disappeared into the bathroom, and when she emerges, framed by the bright light behind her, she looks even more like one of Odysseus' Sirens with her hair now tumbling around her shoulders in loose waves, and the train of her dress pooling around her bare feet. Slowly, deliberately, she walks towards me, and my heart begins to race at the look in her eyes. When she is standing before me, she turns around, sweeping her hair off her neck so that I can undo her dress. Unusually, there's no zip, just a long row of tiny buttons, which my normally nimble fingers are finding hard to manage as they tremble in anticipation… finally I work the last one free, and with a rustle of silk, the dress falls away, and Ruth is standing there, wearing nothing more than a diamond necklace and a smile, slanted rakishly over her shoulder at me. My breath hitches as she looks at me, then walks gracefully towards the bed, like a goddess from ancient times, or a fairy queen… I follow her, mesmerised, discarding clothing as I go. Ruth still has her back to me as I reach her, so I slip my arms snugly around her waist until she twists round to entwine her arms around my neck, drawing me towards her for a long kiss which deepens, setting me alight again and transmitting her urgency. We move backwards, until I feel the edge of the mattress behind me, and then Ruth pushes me down, and follows me onto the bed.

Ruth seems now to be made of moonlight and quicksilver, with a wildness at the heart of her that demands I respond with all my recently discovered sensuality and skill, and more, as she stretches herself next to me at full length and fixes me with a look that holds both challenge and promise. I start by tracing a trail of kisses along one side of her beautiful body, then across to the other, and then I visit all points in between until she shivers in delight. I am learning the signals which show that she is ready for more; the rosy flush across her chest, her nipples standing proud to my touch, the way her breath catches as I caress her, the unmistakable scent, like hot seawater, which begins to rise from her, the tilting of her hips to welcome me as I finally move between her thighs, and finally, her throaty moan of excitement as we begin.

Tonight, as it turns out, is about something more primal, more raw, than anything we have yet known together, as we race quickly to the brink, spurring each other on, until I break with a sound I barely recognise as my own voice; and before I have fully recovered, she rolls us over and continues, with some help from me, until she too cries out with pleasure, then lies at full length along my body as we catch our breath together, my hands stroking the satiny skin of her back and then gliding over the fascinating topography of her bottom, hips and thighs. Before I am fully recovered, she sits up with her knees on either side of my ribs, and pins my arms above my head, eyes gleaming as she looks down at me, my chest still heaving from our exertions, and says hoarsely, "_More_…" I look at her incredulously, and then, with a little laugh, I ask, "Have you ever heard of a refractory period? Men, especially men my age, find that we need them…" Ruth blinks slowly, catlike, and replies, "It's not all about that, you know…I think it's time I showed you a bit more about how we do things in the twenty-first century…" And, to my utter amazement, she does.

We sleep, then, worn out by the excitement of the evening and our exertions, still wrapped around each other. When I next wake, Ruth is already up, judging by the muffled noise of water running in the bathroom, and the dawn is beginning to lighten the Eastern sky, coming early at this time of year. Ruth emerges from the bathroom wrapped in a towel, and smelling faintly of the expensive complimentary shower gel – Penhaligon's Bluebell fragrance, I think it is – but as she spots me lying flat on my back, and quite evidently pleased to see her, she crosses to the bed slowly, holding my gaze as she moves towards me, each step bringing her closer, until she drops the towel, turns back the sheet which is draped over me, and swings her leg across my hips as she climbs onto the bed, smiling down at me in anticipation.

Ruth nestles herself carefully into my lap, then leans forward to kiss me, the tips of her breasts just grazing my chest, before sitting back up and drawing me up along with her, her hands on the back of my neck, until we are both upright, and as close as it is possible for two people to be, as we each caress every inch of the other's exposed skin; and then, when we judge the time to be right, she sets her hands on my shoulders, rolls her hips forward until she engulfs me once more, and making small, precise movements, as I exert all my self-control for her, we reach a new peak of sensation and intimacy. Ruth embraces me tightly as her first climax hits, and shortly after, her fingernails score the skin of my back, as her hands clench convulsively with the cataclysmic arrival of her second orgasm, along with my own. This time, I cry out in Welsh, so intense are the emotional and physical feelings, and as we collapse onto the mattress together, Ruth rolls onto one elbow, and asks me what I just said. Flushing with embarrassment at having been so overwhelmed by the strength of my love for her that I involuntarily reverted to my childhood tongue, I turn my head to look at her, and gently take hold of her hand to place it over my rapidly beating heart. "I said, you have torn my soul from me…and that I love you, Ruth, with all my heart…" She smiles until her dimples appear, dips her head to kiss me, and says softly, "I know, Malcolm, I know." We fall asleep spooned together, naked in the warm room, before we wake to start all over again, this time as the morning sun stripes our skin with golden light. I have never known anything like the fierce hunger Ruth has awakened in me last night; it is as if I have been starving for my entire life, and have finally found the only food I crave.

When the red flash comes, mid-morning, neither of us hear it; we are too deeply asleep, caught up in Midsummer dreams…


	27. Chapter 27

**A/N: My apologies for the delay in updating - the RW caught up with me and demanded my undivided attention for a while, when all I wanted to do was write! Life can be so cruel…anyway, here's the Next Bit, without any further ado – Airgead ;)**

In one of my dreams, Ruth and I are swimming in a warm, aquamarine ocean; the silken tropical water is soft against my skin as, unhampered by my usual wretched lung capacity, I dive down to the white, sandy seabed to pick up a pearl. It is as large as a gull's egg, and about the same shape. It feels heavier than it looks as I swim with it up through the scintillating, sparkling waters to where Ruth floats, her hair adrift on the surface like a mermaid's mane, the deep sapphire sky above us cloudless. We could be in Tahiti, perhaps, or the Seychelles – somewhere hot, and sundrenched, and secluded...somewhere far from the Grid, where no-one knows who we are, nor what we do. Breaking the surface next to her, I gently nestle the pearl between Ruth's breasts as she lies in the water, eyes almost closed against the bright, pure sunlight of the tropics. Her mouth curves up in a smile as she feels the smooth, cool pearl on her skin, then she slowly cracks an eye wider to investigate my offering. She reacts as if I have coiled a coral sea-snake on her chest: both eyes fly open as with a gasp of horror, she seizes the pearl and flings it away, far across the water, before she turns to swim into shore, leaving me filled with bafflement and dismay. I begin to swim after her, but she is too fast; by the time I have gained the shallows, she has vanished from the blindingly white coral sand of the beach, her small footprints the only evidence that she was there at all. Panicky now, I begin to trot after her, following the footprints; I cannot see her, but from somewhere in front of me, I can hear a sharp tapping noise, like the sound of a coconut being opened; or the sound of a fist knocking on wood… The world seems to tip and tilt then, making no sense at all, as in my ear I can quite clearly hear Ruth say, "Malcolm? _Malcolm!_ There's somebody at the door…"as she shakes me awake.

The knocking continues as I roll out of bed groggily, search round for a dressing gown, and stumble to the door, blushing as I remember the events of last night which had their genesis there. Ruth, meanwhile, flees to the bathroom, gathering her discarded clothing as she goes, and as I stare at the back of the door, gathering the courage to face my worst fear (still knocking inexorably, and with slightly more force), I can hear water running behind me. I curl my toes into the carpet to steady myself, take a couple of deep breaths like a free-diver before descending to the depths, and inch the door open a crack, still on the chain. _As if a flimsy safety chain is going to save us,_ I think in despair, and then I stare in disbelief at the face which is revealed on the other side, looking back at me with a distinctly jaundiced eye. _Danny?! _

So great is my relief and amazement, that for a moment I can't think what to do, nor why Danny is here, as I gape at him like a landed fish, mouth moving soundlessly. Danny rolls his eyes impatiently and says sharply, "Open the door, and let me in. I can't talk to you from out here," and when I continue to stare at him, unmoving, he reaches in, and with a practised move, flicks the chain off the catch and pushes past me into the room. Feeling as if I have woken from one dream only to fall straight into another nightmare, I close the door and follow him.

Standing in the centre of the room, Danny casts a curious eye about, noting the wreckage of sheets, duvet and pillows tumbled about the king-sized ensemble, the trail of my evening clothes still scattered where Ruth dropped them as we moved towards the bed, my overnight bag (Ruth, mercifully quick-witted as ever, seems to have taken hers with her into the bathroom). Now that I'm properly awake, I become aware of the unmistakable musky scent still hanging in the air, and edge over towards a window to let some air in. Danny shakes his head, having come to the exact set of conclusions that any field officer would reach when presented with such a scene, and for a moment his air of urgency and annoyance vanishes as he looks at me with a man-to-man grin, the first he has ever given me. "I didn't think you had it in you, Malcolm. Who's the lucky girl?" I redden to the roots of my hair, and he shakes his head. "No, on second thoughts, don't tell me – believe me, if you can manage to keep your private life private, so much the better for you. There's got to be some part of your life that they don't know about, don't think they can just walk into and rearrange any time they like, right?" and in that sentence, I hear once more the younger man's regret and disappointment over losing Zoe. I pull the dressing gown more tightly around me and finally manage to ask, "Why are you here?" Danny straightens from picking something up off the carpet near the bed, which he is looking at in puzzlement as he turns to face me. I am glad the light from the window is behind me, casting my face into shadow, as I register what he is holding in his hand. A small, square metallic object, gleaming dully in the sunlight…

My first thought is, _So that's where it got to_, and the next is, _What on earth is Ruth doing with our prized Tessina 35 miniature camera, the one Lucas took from a Russian agent, as a junior field officer? _Danny holds the tiny device out to me, and stepping forward, I take it and slip it into my pocket, nodding my thanks, striving for normalcy even as my heart batters my ribs and all the fresh air coming in through the window seems to elude me. Frowning, his earlier tone of annoyance returning, Danny answers, "You didn't answer a red flash. Six flagged up something last night from their man in Kabul, some chatter to do with a new terror cell operating out of Baghdad. Six has intel that they might be planning something major here soon, a retaliatory strike, and they've just advised us that several suspected members of the group are en route for the UK – somehow, they let them slip off the watch-list, so now Five has to clean up, as usual. We have to get out of here and back to the Grid ASAP. Harry's waiting – he wants his senior officers on this, not the relief staff. We can't get hold of Ruth, either – she's not answering her phone, and she's not where she said she would be in the off-duty contact register – he already sent a car round, but she's not at home. He's really beginning to worry about her…"

At these words, Ruth emerges from the bathroom, fully dressed in skirt and blouse, the diamond pendant winking at her throat, not a hair out of place, and I have the rare and not totally unamusing experience of seeing Danny Hunter do a double-take worthy of one of the Marx Brothers, while he simultaneously gropes for words to express the enormity of his surprise at this unexpected development. All three of us stand and stare at each other, Ruth blushing under Danny's shocked scrutiny, until she finally says, "Please don't tell Harry," her eyes pleading with her friend. Danny snorts incredulously, before recovering his poise, and his next words are laced with contempt, as he spits out, "So, I see you're making sure that you're not going to end up bitter and broken, then, Ruth." The words have a familiar ring to them, but in the increasingly tense atmosphere in the room, I am finding it difficult to think straight, let alone recall past conversations. There's no point in denying that we spent the night together; the whole room is testament to it, and besides, Danny is sharp when it comes to reading how people are with each other; it's part of what makes him so good at his job.

I realise I am holding my breath as I wait for Ruth to respond; instinctively, I understand that while I am part of the situation in which we now find ourselves, I am not a participant in this particular conversation. Ruth's eyes flick briefly to mine, and in them I read her wish for me to leave them alone for a moment. Nodding imperceptibly, I disappear into the bathroom with relief, carrying my overnight bag with me, just as Ruth begins to speak, her voice pitched too low for me to hear; not so the case for Danny's indignant, "What's going on, Ruth…tell me you're not seriously with _Malcolm?!" _I inadvertently slam the door in my haste to escape before any more unflattering aspersions are cast my way, and sit down on the edge of the bath, my head reeling from the cumulative effects of the events of the last day, as I struggle to regain some semblance of control over my shaking body and quaking heart. Digging my hands into the deep pockets of the hotel's dressing gown in an attempt to stop them trembling, my fingers close on the tiny, solid weight of the Tessina, only slightly chunkier to the touch than a woman's powder compact, and at once my mind focuses on it as something concrete, something tangible to consider and analyse. Something _real_…

I had noticed it missing when I did an inventory check a couple of weeks ago, and had quizzed the field staff; no-one had taken it – most of them had never even seen it_. _A few things have been going missing lately, I muse…this, a couple of small surveillance devices, and most costly of all, one of our three microdot readers…Colin and I will just have to upgrade internal security again, I note resignedly, and then I wonder again why Ruth would even have something like this in the first place. Surely she couldn't have been on an operation last night? Harry, even in his wildest dreams, would never have sent someone like Ruth, unskilled in field work, into the waiting maw of Toad Hall. And what should I do with the camera, now that I have it? I turn the problem over in my mind, looking at it from different angles, but in the end I decide that the only thing to do is to return the camera, and wait to see what Ruth does next.

I see that her oversized patent leather holdall is still hanging from the hook on the back of the bathroom door, and I gingerly take it down, using a towel wrapped around my fingers so as not to leave any prints, then I carefully lift out her dress from last night, still as glossy as a newly cast-off snake's skin (although Ruth may have been dressed as finely as Titania herself last night, I doubt that I was any match in splendour, as was Oberon to his queen) and with the greatest delicacy, wincing in distaste at the task I have set myself, I feel through the folds of fabric until I find the tiny, concealed pocket under the left armhole, and slip the camera back in. It must have fallen out when I undressed Ruth, last night. I replace the garment, exactly as I found it, and hang the bag back up. Doing so is an act of complete trust on my part: I have no idea what Ruth had the Tessina for, or what images she may have captured with it, if any, but when I imagine her reaction at the realisation that she has lost an irreplaceable and unique (_and unsigned for_) bit of field kit, I cannot bring myself to be the author of such distress. Besides, I've been a spook too long, not to be curious to know what she will do next…_Ruth, my love, what are you up to? And why?_

Somehow, thinking about, and then returning, the camera has calmed me, and I am able to refocus on the more pressing matter at hand. We need to get going, if Harry's waiting on the Grid. Glancing at the clock on the vanity shelf, I register that it is 1.15pm with amazement_. We must have slept the sleep of Morpheus, after the last time we…_ Turning on the shower, I force my mind back to the present, to the news that there is yet another threat to deal with, yet another mass of ever-shifting intel to analyse and sift through, yet another deluge of data to process, and somehow still come out ahead of the opposition, all within ever-shrinking timeframes; my stomach clenches at the thought, and I dial the hot water up as high as I can bear it, trying to wash away the surging anxiety I feel, not only about the upcoming operation, but also for Ruth and me. I can't imagine how we can escape now that our cover has been blown…

While coming to this conclusion, there are two factors that I overlook, both of which become clear as soon as I step back into the room, ten minutes later, dressed and ready to go. One is the power of Ruth's ability to persuade others to her point of view, and the other is the depth of Danny's disaffection with the Service in general, and his disillusionment with Harry in particular. The two of them are standing by the window, still in conversation, until Ruth hears my footfall behind her and turns around, giving me a reassuring smile, as she removes her hand from Danny's upper arm, where it had been wrapped as she made an emphatic final point; Danny nods abruptly, as if to conclude their discussion, and then looks me hard in the eye. "OK, so whatever you two do in your own time is off-limits, as far as I'm concerned. I don't give a damn who does what with who, as long as I don't have to come looking for you because you missed an alert. As for Five, from Harry right up to the D-G himself, they can all go to hell before I give them an opportunity to wreck anyone else's personal life…" and with that, he walks out of the room, face sullen, shoulders set against the world. Ruth and I look at each other; it seems too good to be true, that we should be emerging, still together, and relatively unscathed, from Toad Hall, and my thoughts must show on my face as Ruth takes my hand, then stands on tiptoe to whisper,

"_If we have unearned luck, _

_Now to 'scape the serpent's tongue, _

_We will make amends ere long…"_

before I draw her into one final kiss against the door which started it all, mentally thanking Robin Goodfellow and his ilk for our luck, unearned or not. Ruth, breathless, breaks away first, gasping, "Danny…the Grid…Harry's _waiting_!" And with that, all three of us take our departure; me, driving alone, and Ruth, travelling with Danny, so as not to arouse suspicion if we were to be seen arriving in the same car at Thames House. She and Danny have hatched some cover story about how he finally managed to get hold of her on her mobile while driving back from fetching me at Havensworth; whatever it is, I know Danny is plausible enough to get away with it, and Ruth too, or so it would seem. As I pull out of Havensworth's wide gravel drive, I can't help but think nervously of the final lines which complete Ruth's earlier quotation, which seem to me to have taken on a new and rather more obscure meaning:

_Else the Puck a liar call;_

_So good night unto you all_

_Give me your hands, if we be friends, _

_And Robin shall restore amends._

Sighing, I point the car towards London, and Thames House, and Harry Pearce…all roads do lead to Rome, after all.

**A/N: yes, coral sea snakes do exist, and they are extremely venomous; Tessina cameras likewise exist, although the miniature spy camera of choice is, apparently, the Minox (which was the wrong shape for my purposes, but no doubt an admirable bit of kit); all quotations in this chapter are, of course, from Shakespeare's A Midsummer Night's Dream.**


	28. Chapter 28

The red flash, as it turns out, is for nothing; the three suspected terrorists, one woman and two men, have disappeared so completely upon their supposed departure from Iraq that only an organisation with a very great deal of money could have orchestrated it. _Al Qaeda_ is the unspoken name on everyone's lips. Harry, puce with annoyance at having had to dispatch Danny to find Ruth and me in the first place, tasks her with keeping an eye on the internet chatter coming out of Baghdad and Kabul – a junior analyst's job, except that none of the current batch are as fluent in Arabic as Ruth. As for me, I am banished to the tech suite with the instruction to find them, by satellite, by hacking airline records, by going over every inch of ground, if need be, between London and the Persian Gulf with a digital fine-tooth comb until I turn up a clue as to their whereabouts. I find nothing, not so much as an electronic sausage, as Colin is fond of saying on those occasions where the combined intelligence and technology capabilities of Five draw a blank. All we can do now is to watch, and wait, and pray…

It is very late, well after one a.m., when Harry finally relents and calls it a night. Danny left some hours earlier to tap a possible source somewhere in the East End, and there are only the three of us – Harry, Ruth, and myself – still on the Grid. Ruth is nearly asleep at her desk, and Harry, after glancing her way several times from his office, tells her to call a driver and go home. She protests, but he is insistent, and during this exchange, I say goodnight to both, before slipping out of the pods and making my way down to the car park to collect the hire car. For once, I can't wait to leave. Harry has been like a bear with a sore head all day, partly because of our inability to locate the three suspects – it is as if they never existed at all – but partly too, I fear, because of the uncharacteristic behaviour of two of his most trusted staff – missing an alert, then responding far later than could ever be construed as acceptable, and one of them not even being where she said she would be while off-duty. I don't know what Danny told Harry upon his arrival at the Grid, with Ruth in tow, but at least he doesn't appear to be harbouring any unusual degree of suspicion towards me or Ruth. Then again, Harry's poker face is legendary, and he is not a man to show his hand until he chooses…

Still, I have found today to be an extremely enervating experience, as I am once again a reluctant witness to the unspoken undercurrent which runs between them, so soon after discovering my own passion for Ruth. Until last night, I loved her tenderly and unreservedly, but always with a certain hesitancy and uncertainty too; all this is still true, but now, Eros has reared its seductive head, and from the moment Ruth pinned me against the bedroom door, I have felt as if I am truly awake for the first time in my adult life. It is a disturbing, yet exhilarating sensation, and one that I distrust with every cogent brain cell of my being. _O, that way, madness lies; let me shun that; no more of that,_ sounds the general alarm clamouring in my rational mind. And yet, how wonderfully alive I feel, more alert and present in my body than ever before. No wonder Paris stole Helen away from her husband, if this was the effect she had upon him; and equally, I am no longer surprised that Menelaus launched a thousand ships, and the greatest epic poem in the world, in pursuit of her.

If this is how being in love really feels, it terrifies me, this endless, aching need for her. I know that I need to collect myself, to get my emotions back under control, and to think; or perhaps, I should stop thinking altogether, and just wait to see what happens. That is doubtless what Adam, or Danny, or any other man would do in the same situation, so why can't I? But even as this thought forms, I know what the answer is. _Because this is me, and Ruth, and nothing can ever be simple or straightforward where we are concerned; both of us live too much in our own heads…and then, there's Harry…always Harry, claiming her time and attention for the most legitimate of reasons – because he is her boss, the head of counter-terrorism for his country, and as such, a man worthy of the utmost loyalty and respect. What can I offer, that even comes close to that? _I torment myself with such thoughts all the way home, and it is with relief that I finally pull into the garage and turn off the engine, before slipping upstairs to bed.

As I stare at the ceiling, sleep eluding me like a thief avoiding capture, I realise how much I am missing Ruth's presence next to me; I miss the feeling of her softness against my skin, of the ends of her hair, tickling my face as it spreads across the pillow; I miss the little noises she makes in her sleep, the warm weight of her body pressed into mine, and the comfortable feeling of her in my arms as we finally curl into each other and drift into unconsciousness together, exhausted, yet fulfilled. I miss her, in short, and I need her, and more than that, I _want_ her, heaven help me. Eventually, I fall into a restless and unsatisfactory sleep, and wake feeling more tired than when I finally dropped off, sometime in the wee hours; I look over to the other side of the bed, where Ruth is not, and my heart sinks like a stone…she should be here, smiling back at me as I greet her with an early morning cup of tea and a kiss, which could lead to anything, anything at all…sighing heavily, I haul myself upright, and wearily I start yet another day on my own.

Over the next week, Danny proves to be as good as his word, and no mention is made of our surprise encounter at Toad Hall, to either Ruth's knowledge, or mine. I know Ruth is worried for her friend, and I share her concern, as I too have witnessed the changes in him since Zoe's forced exile. In the intervening months since her departure, Danny has become taciturn, sometimes sullen, and withdrawn; he refuses invitations to join teammates for drinks after work, he arrives on the Grid early and leaves as soon as possible, and his once keen sense of fun has turned into a world-weary cynicism that is distressing to hear.

I have seen the signs of burnout in other fine officers, too many times, and I fear that Danny is beginning to show some of the symptoms. I keep a closer eye on him in the field, afraid that he could suddenly go off-piste, but he continues to perform his duties well from what I can see; only, all the flair and joy which once characterised his work with Zoe is gone, replaced with a cold, efficient professionalism. Adam, sensibly, decides to partner Danny with his lovely wife and fellow field officer, Fiona, and the two of them work effectively enough together, but nothing can mask Danny's air of loneliness when he sees them stealing a quick kiss on the Grid, or watches them leaving together at night, arms looped around each other, laughing as they separate at the pods, only to join up again on the other side. I almost know how he feels, except that my usually fertile imagination is not up to the task of contemplating life without Ruth; it simply does not compute.

Ruth spends much of her time at work over the next two weeks trawling through internet chatter in three different languages, stung by her inability to turn up any trace of the suspected Iraqi terror cell; she asks Colin to write a weighting algorithm similar to one he has been testing recently, and with some input from a GCHQ linguistics boffin, he comes up with a way to simultaneously search for similar words in chatter in Arabic, Farsi and English. But even with this new weapon in her arsenal, Ruth is unsuccessful, and failure is not something she is used to. It becomes a personal mission of hers, and she works early and late, sifting through endless chat rooms and black sites when her other tasks allow.

I understand her frustration, respect her dedication, and help out when I can by analysing terabytes of data from satellite, CCTV, and half a dozen other surveillance systems, looking for that one tiny anomaly which will unravel the mystery; but we find nothing on the two men and one woman reported by Six as attempting to leave Iraq almost a fortnight ago for the UK. Nothing, that is, until they find us, or to be more precise, they find the Carters, and the worst day yet of Ruth's tenure on the Grid begins, as I watch helplessly, powerless to protect her from the one of the most brutal realities of our work: sometimes, our luck runs out, and one of our own dies.

_Take therefore no thought for the morrow: for the morrow shall take thought for the things of itself. Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof – _Matthew 6:34, KJV

**A/N – the "madness" verse is from Shakespeare's King Lear. And yes, ep 3.10 is up next, heaven help us.**

**I know I've said it before, but my thanks go to those readers who are leaving such lovely reviews; it is a very humbling experience to see how people are taking this story, and in particular my version of Malcolm, to their hearts - Airgead**


	29. Chapter 29

For such a dreadful day, it begins much like any other. People arrive on the Grid at their accustomed hour, carrying bacon and egg sandwiches and takeaway coffees, collected on their commute into Thames House; others, like me, who have already eaten at home, make cups of tea and exchange pleasantries with colleagues in the tea room. Ruth must have arrived at five in the morning - by the time I am in at seven-thirty, her desk is littered with three used mugs, a Pret A Manger "breakfast roll" wrapper (I shudder to think – I began my day with porridge, made by my mother, and some sliced fruit), and a half-eaten packet of gingernuts.

God is in the details, as Ruth is fond of saying, and I recognise the gingernuts as being a bad sign – she only eats them when things are not coming up roses. It must be the hardness of them that appeal to the fierce side of her nature, or so I surmise, from the way in which she is biting down savagely on one as she glares at her screen. "Good morning," I venture, pausing by her desk to take a couple of biscuits to dunk in my tea – a terribly _common_ habit, Mother would say, but one I must confess to rather enjoying from time to time – and to smile at her, as her eyes briefly meet mine over the top of her monitor. "Is it?" she retorts grumpily, before she scoots her chair out from her desk and arches her body backwards, stretching both arms up over her head. She is wearing trousers, unusually, with a wine-coloured top which only just covers her midriff, and as she stretches, I catch a tantalising glimpse of said midriff; instantly, my mind is back in our bedroom at Havensworth, as she…I blink rapidly, schooling myself sternly to concentrate on the here and now, which is standing on the Grid, as Harry emerges from his office looking decidedly rough around the edges. I see that he is carrying a fresh shirt over one arm, and his shave kit; _he must have slept here last night_, I think, as I watch him walk slowly towards the men's lavatory at the far end of the Grid, head bowed with exhaustion.

Ruth, sitting back up again in her chair, gives me a tired look and says, "Sorry. It was a very long night, and you know what I'm like on too little sleep, but least I got to go home for a few hours. Harry was here all night…" I nod – I do know what she's like without enough sleep – and then say, "I'd better be getting in there, then. If we're able to leave at a reasonable hour tonight, would you like to have dinner with me? I thought we could try for that new place at the Oxo Tower, but I would have to book it as soon as they open today. We haven't really seen each other since, well, you know…"I am reluctant to even mention the words _Havensworth_, or _ball_, at work – one never knows who might be listening, or what carelessly spoken sentence could pique their interest. Ruth breaks into her glorious, all-too-rarely-seen smile, then, dimples and all, her eyes shining at the thought of an evening in one of London's better restaurants, and replies happily, "Oh, Malcolm, I'd love to! I haven't been there, but I believe it's wonderful." I smile back, and with a tiny little bow, really more of a nod, I say, "Then your wish is my command," and picking up my now cooling mug of tea, I float back to my desk, head in the rose-coloured clouds of my plans for our evening together.

A good meal, some decent wine, and a walk along the Thames in the long twilight of high summer, and then, hopefully, back to her house where, alone at last, we can make a feast of an entirely different sort, one that I have been craving since we left Toad Hall…it's ridiculous, at my age, and after spending almost an entire lifetime celibate, just how much I desire her, and how frequently I now find my thoughts drifting in that direction. This preoccupation with sex is, I believe, the norm for most men, but I am not used to thinking of myself in those terms, nor having my mind suddenly disengage from the task or discussion at hand, only to retrieve a highly inappropriate, if intriguing, image, or recollect a particularly erotic experience that Ruth and I have shared. I feel like an adolescent again, and some days it takes all of my self-discipline, all of my training in self-denial and in retreating into the realm of pure logical thought, to maintain my outwardly calm exterior, and not give the game away altogether by seizing Ruth and kissing her soundly in the middle of the Grid, onlookers be damned, then leading her off to the nearest private space – and I know them all – in Thames House, where we…

_But this really must stop, _I scold myself, as I take a soothing sip of tepid tea, then dip a gingernut in the mug and nibble carefully at the resulting softened mess, just as Colin enters the Geek Suite, as Sam has dubbed our little corner of the Grid, to distinguish it from the tech suite, which is a much bigger room that becomes the nerve centre of most of our operations. I'm sure she's not the first, and certain she won't be the last. Colin straightens up from removing his bicycle clips, and his eye falls on the gingernut I have left for him, sitting on the rim of his limited-edition Doctor Who mug, ready for the next time he has tea. He looks from it to me, face falling at the implicit meaning behind the presence of that particular comestible on his desk. "She hasn't found them, then." I shake my head, mouth full of biscuit, and Colin's shoulders slump. "I don't know what else to do, Malcolm, I've tweaked that algorithm twice, she should be getting only the top half-percent of relevant sites now."

Colin's voice is full of frustration, so I remind him that the top half-percent is still a lot of data to trawl through, and what Ruth is looking for can only be found with intuition as well as with information. "She's like an artist, really, working in the dark," I say, and flush with embarrassment at Colin's _oh please_ look. "So, when are you going to do something about that?" he asks, firing up his array for the day. I turn back to my own screens, where I have already got half a dozen different tasks in progress, including yet another meta-search for Ruth's terrorist cell, plus a half-completed _Times_ cryptic crossword to contemplate. "You know that silence speaks louder than words, right?" Colin observes, and I chuckle at his tenacity, and also at the thought of what I could tell him if I so chose…

"If the whole place is running a book on Ruth and Harry, what sort of odds do you think they'd give me?" I fence. "Some pretty long ones, I should think. Shergar would have done better for this year's Derby." Colin harrumphs in amusement, then rejoins, "You're probably right. I reckon you're better off out of all that, anyway. There's something about her, something…weird. Do you know she just handed me the Tessina a couple of weeks ago? I didn't even know it was out of the cage, there was nothing on the register. What would she need that for?" I am very glad Colin can't see my face right now, as I can feel the blood draining away. _So she did return it, and blatantly so, if she just handed it to Colin, _I think, before asking, in as uninterested a tone of voice as I can manage, "Really? Did she say anything about it?" Colin snorts, and answers, "She gave me some cock and bull story about how Harry had asked her to return it for him, but I didn't believe it for a minute. If Harry had taken it, why wouldn't he have signed it out?" I shrug, and say, "Ours not to reason why…" Colin groans, "Not Tennyson again, Malcolm, it's too early in the day. I'm going to get tea – do you want a top-up?" Without turning round, I hand up my mug, half full and cold, and Colin lopes out onto the Grid. I slump with relief in my seat, before picking up the crosswords page and staring at it without seeing. Not for the first time, I am grateful that I am not a field agent – all this dissembling is horrible, and I have begun to hate not being able to lay claim to the most extraordinary thing that has ever happened to me: Ruth.

The morning moves on; Colin returns with fresh tea, and I hear Adam and Fiona arriving, bantering about her birthday, which is today, or so I gather. Danny comes in not long after, and the Grid gets into full swing as Harry, freshly showered and shaven, in his clean shirt, but not fooling any of us, calls the morning briefing. I am not needed – generally, Colin and I only attend if there is a matter which requires our particular expertise – so I step out through the pods, and make my way up to the rooftop for some privacy in which to make my enquiry regarding dinner reservations. Five minutes later, I drop a slip of paper on Ruth's keyboard (she is still in the briefing) with the single numeral, _8, _printed on it, and one corner folded over in a certain way to tell her it's from me, before heading back to my workstation, trying my best not to grin all the way. Ruth, me, and an elegant evening out– _perfect!_

An hour or so later, I hear Harry asking Adam if Ruth has gotten any more internet chatter, and I hold my breath in anticipation of the answer, turning slightly in my chair so I can see across to where Ruth and Adam's desks are located. Adam's shrug says it all, and I feel bad for Ruth, who has worked so long and hard on this with so little result. It happens to all of us, at some point, and there are few things as frustrating, or corrosive to one's self-confidence. I see Danny and Fiona head out of the pods, just as Sam comes in, much later than usual, and with a certain gleam in her eye, a gleam that Ruth sometimes has, afterwards... Blushing, I refocus my attention on the system diagnostic which is running on my primary screen, and so miss seeing a tall, dark man arriving a couple of minutes after Sam.

I register him later, though, as he walks out of the meeting room, headed for Sam's desk. He's handsome, self-assured (one might even say cocky) and very, very young. I already know his name, having heard Sam giggling about "Zaf from Six" with one of the admin staff in the kitchen as I washed up our mugs. I instantly recognise what a coup his recruitment was for our sister agency; a British-Asian male is the ultimate field agent, in this day and age; the speculative look on Harry's face says it all. Adam shakes hands warmly with the young man before strolling through the pods, on his way, I assume, to see how Fiona and Danny are going with their search of a suspected terrorist safe house, a lead which has come to us via a Moroccan agent codenamed Butterfly.

I have worked on the Grid, and with Harry, for so long, that when something goes wrong, I can often sense it before it is spoken; the air, usually chill and still thanks to the highly effective (and necessary) ventilation system, takes on a certain electric quality, and the atmosphere, normally one of quiet efficiency and focused effort, grows tense. Being in an exposed place, a beach or an open field, as a sudden summer storm blows in, filling the air with ozone and static, is the closest analogy I can think of; except that on the Grid, the thunderclouds are generally courtesy of Harry Pearce, rather than Divine Providence. Sometimes, I wonder if Harry would admit that there's a difference between the two…

When the hair on the back of my neck begins to prickle, I know that something has happened, and by the sudden churning in my stomach, I know it must be bad. Instinctively, I turn around to see what is going on, and my enquiring gaze falls straight onto Ruth, sitting as still as a mouse, knuckles clenched around her telephone handset, as she listens to her caller with a strange intensity. The call doesn't last long, but it is what she does next that really alarms me; she almost runs to Harry's office, face white, before racing back to her desk two minutes later. I get up, ready to head for the briefing room, when a red flash sounds on my mobile phone, then on Colin's a second later. Ruth is recalling the entire team, and Colin swings round in his seat to look at me in puzzlement. "What's going on?" he asks, and in reply I shrug my shoulders, unwilling to take my eyes from Ruth, or speak, until I have more of a grasp of the situation. Ruth is still rapidly dialling numbers, and a look of fear passes across her face as she dials the same number twice, then tries one more time. She sits down precipitately, as if her legs have just given way, and I start across the Grid towards her in concern. "Is everything all right?" I ask quietly, when I reach her side, and she turns eyes like a frozen ocean toward me. I feel ill at the raw fear I see in them. "No, it's not – please, don't ask me anything now, just go and trace Adam's most recent mobile calls – he rang me just a few minutes ago, he didn't make sense at first, but I think something terrible is about to happen…this is it, Malcolm, this is the terror cell we couldn't find, I just know it." her voice trembles as she says this, but she has the sense to speak softly, so only I can hear. I nod once and turn immediately towards the tech suite, where I get straight to work, bringing several machines online for the others, and commencing the trace.

Minutes later, Ruth joins me, and I seize the opportunity to take her hand under the table for a moment, hoping to reassure her. She looks at me, eyes wide, then squeezes back briefly – _thankyou_ – before reviewing the intel I have compiled; Adam's mobile phone call log, the records of missed calls to Danny and Fiona's phones, and the CCTV footage I have pulled and reviewed from the last known location of Adam's phone, in the NFT café on the South Bank, not far from Thames House. What I have found in the footage is cause for grave concern – Adam is sitting, far stiffer than his usual relaxed posture, at a table outside the café, with an unknown woman of Middle Eastern appearance. There is something about the way she is facing him that suggests to my practised eye that she has a gun, or a weapon of some sort, but I don't mention this to Ruth – it is just my own speculation, at this point, and she already looks worried enough. It doesn't take her long to draw the same conclusions I have, and she leaps up to fetch Harry. I lock the screen with a password that Ruth and I sometimes use when we are working on something that Harry doesn't want the rest of the Grid to know about just yet, and slip out of the room and back to my desk, before Ruth returns.

Shortly afterwards, Sam comes bustling in, and asks Colin for an earwig and the smallest tracking device we have – one small enough to hide in a sweetie wrapper, as she puts it. Colin, always glad to oblige her, quickly fetches them from the tech storage cage, and then his eyebrows shoot up as she hands him the list of other items required. Fundraiser identity vests, buckets full of sweets, clipboards and casual civvies for Zaf plus six admin staff, who are being co-opted into some harebrained scheme to contact Adam while he is still in the presence of the hostile woman who is sitting with him. Five minutes and one call to the Property Department later, Zaf's impromptu team leaves Thames House, and I watch on CCTV as the drop goes successfully, much to my amazement. "Game on, then," Colin mutters, and I glance at him sharply before following Ruth down the corridor. This is not a game, anything but, if what I have seen so far is any indication; with difficulty, I keep my thoughts to myself.

Once Adam is wired for sound, and his tracking signal is activated, our lives – and his – become marginally easier, and I breathe a small sigh of relief as we follow him across the Thames on CCTV, listening to him as he talks to his captor, drawing out information, making it clear that he is not intimidated by her. A few minutes later, Ruth, flanked by Harry and Zaf, gets a frantic-sounding call from Danny, and on another screen, I begin to trace it, using sophisticated satellite mapping and triangulation software; the signal goes dead before the search is completed, to Harry's intense annoyance, but Colin cleans up the raw data with lightning speed, and we narrow its origin to within five miles of Virginia Water, in the stockbroker belt of Surrey, just outside the M25.

Events seem to move very quickly after that. Sam enters, carrying a small packet for Harry; he snaps at her, but she stands her ground, and explains that it was left at a police station in Surrey. It turns out to be a hostage video, with Fiona reading a statement in dead, flat tones – not like her normally vivacious voice at all – with some hitherto unknown terrorist group taking credit for the kidnappings of Danny and Fiona, boasting that they can take hostages wherever they choose, and making a lot of highly unreasonable demands regarding British involvement in Iraq, the Prime Minister, and a landmark speech he is scheduled to deliver tonight. _Dear God_, I think, _and we have a government which publicly insists it does not negotiate with terrorists_…my chest begins to tighten in response to the rising fear I feel for my kidnapped colleagues, for Adam, and for Ruth, who listens grimly to Fiona's message, face set, only her eyes betraying her true state of mind. They are all trapped like flies at the centre of a web of intel which only she can untangle; but will she be able to do it before their time runs out?…_Yet stands the Church clock at ten to three/And is there honey still for tea? It's funny how the mind under duress throws out strange little snippets from memory_…

I wait in dread to see what will happen next.

**A/N: Shergar was a champion Irish racehorse, and winner of the 1981 Derby. He was kidnapped in 1983 from his home in Co. Kildare, and was never recovered – suspicion fell upon the IRA, who may have stolen him for ransom money to fund the purchase of arms. Malcolm is making a Five in-joke, in other words.**

**The poem referred to in the last paragraph is Rupert Brookes' **_**The Old Vicarage**_**.**


	30. Chapter 30

What happens next is that Harry, upon viewing this missive from the enemy, brusquely demands that Ruth get him the Security and Intelligence Coordinator (a misnomer, if ever there was one), as if she were a mere secretary and not the most brilliant person in the room. Next, he storms out to meet with the man, wearing what I think of privately as his bulldog expression, lower jaw thrust out truculently, head carried well forward, a human battering ram.

Harry's departure seems to leave Ruth nominally in charge; from behind my monitor I see her sit a little taller as she listens avidly to Adam's feed through her headset, a look of pure concentration on her face as she follows the woman's accented English as Adam tries to keep her talking, desperately playing for time now. And then it happens: relayed via Ruth's comms, we hear that one of the hostages is to be executed in retaliation for the death of one of the terrorists during a failed escape attempt, and that he must choose which one it is to be. _Oh, no, dear God… _I daren't take my eyes from my screen, still working on finding anything, anything at all about the three operatives, but I hear Ruth's sudden intake of breath; she keeps her head admirably as she instructs Sam to fetch Harry, _now_.

Harry barrels back into the tech suite in as near an attempt at a run as I have seen him make in years, bad knee and all, with Sam, breathing hard, just in front of him. The junior officer, I fear, is beginning to go to pieces under the pressure, her voice cracking as she begs Harry to do something, _anything_, to save them. I eye Sam warily from behind my monitor, and take mental stock of the medical kit under my desk – as senior technical officer, I am also the Grid's first aid officer, and I have authorisation to not only treat wounds and injuries, but to issue medication if deemed appropriate. A somewhat different sort of workplace means Five has somewhat different rules to the rest of the UK, where a first aider cannot hand out so much as an aspirin without fear of recriminations. Here, I could sedate a colleague with an injection of sodium pentothal or dose them to the eyeballs with temazepam, and not even have opened the medical kit…

And then we are in the room with Fiona and Danny, albeit ever so faintly, via the handset held to Adam's wired ear, as Fiona sobs, telling Adam she loves him, and not to listen to this psychopath… my heart, all our hearts, are in our mouths as we listen, helpless to do anything more. Then, from slightly further away, comes Danny's voice, steady and strong and sure, speaking fine, brave words that fill me with horrified admiration as I realise what he is doing. Danny, who loves Zoe hopelessly, Danny, who is even better at surveillance than me, Danny, Ruth's friend from her first day on the Grid, is going to sacrifice himself for Fiona, perhaps for us all.

Weeping, Fiona begs him not to, and Danny says something incongruous about looking at cake and presents, before continuing to bait his captor, drawing his attention away from Fiona. _This is the most selfless act I will ever witness_, I think wildly…a single shot rings out and then, as if in confirmation, Fiona speaks his name brokenly, with such grief that I know it must be true. Danny is dead. In the second of stunned silence which follows, a verse from the Gospel according to John comes to mind, and I whisper it to myself, hearing my father's voice reading it from the pulpit once more on Remembrance Days long past. _Greater love hath no man than this, that he lay down his life for his friends…_and then, all hell breaks loose. Adam's phone seems to drop onto the floor; Ruth recoils from the sound of the shot, coming clearly through her headset; Harry's hand goes to his eyes, sheltering them from the rest of us who would read there the shocking truth of the situation; Zaf seems to turn pale; Colin blinks, looking down at his hands; and Sam stands up as if to run from the room, before crumpling to the floor like a stricken deer, emitting a series of piercing shrieks as she falls.

My heart aches with pity for her, but now is not the time for hysterics. I hastily get to my feet, then trot back to my desk, diving under it for the med kit and digging out the vial of Valium, before returning to the tech suite post-haste. From previous experience with Mother, I know that people who are hysterical are not amenable to swallowing pills, so I have swiftly crushed three tablets and mixed them into a small bottle of apple juice which I keep in the tea room fridge (clearly labelled, _Urine Specimen_, to prevent unauthorised consumption) for just such a time as this. Sam is still on the floor, still screaming like a banshee, as I drop to my knees beside her. Harry is flinching from the sheer volume of her naked grief, and as I get an arm around her and assist her to sit up, he abruptly leaves the room. Watching him walk away, I think sadly, _Master spy and leader of men you might be, but when it comes to mercy and compassion, I've got the edge…I know who I'd rather be, right now, and it's not Harry bloody Pearce. _I coax Sam, still sobbing and hiccupping, to drink a mouthful, then another, and by the third swallow she has relaxed against my shoulder, her breathing becoming slow and regular as the drug takes effect.

When Sam's eyes flutter shut, I delicately settle her back on the floor in the recovery position, and taking off my jacket, I drape it over her for warmth while I phone for an ambulance. It all takes less than quarter of an hour, and yet by the time the ambulance has trundled off with Sam in the back, and one of the admin officers sitting next to her in a motherly fashion (yes, I know I should have gone with her, but what's the point of being a senior technical officer if not to _delegate_ from time to time, and I could no more leave Ruth now than I could fly through the air), a whole world of events has occurred…

Adam has gone dark, pulling his earpiece out, before going off to do God only knows what with the Iraqi woman; I hear Ruth first talking to him in a remarkably calm tone, trying to find out what happened, clinging to the hope that it was a mock execution, then calling his name desperately, before giving up, the tell-tale crackle of dead air coming through her headset confirming the futility of continuing…

The paramedics arrive in their green uniforms and load a sleepy Sam onto a gurney, wheeling her out through the pods and down to the waiting vehicle; I accompany them as far as the front door of Thames House, before handing her over to the admin officer, a Miss…_Smith_…and returning to the Grid. Harry, hearing no more keening from Sam, comes back into the tech suite where Zaf and Ruth are still sitting, and I enter just in time to not quite catch the end of his _sotto voce_ conversation with Ruth, full of urgency and urging; her eyes as she watches him leave break my heart. Not, for once, because she is again watching him, but because they are so unrelentingly sad. Underneath her sorrow, there is a lost look, which flickers briefly, before another, steelier expression supplants everything which has gone before, as her fighting spirit asserts itself, goaded by whatever Harry has just told her, and she turns back to her screen like an automaton.

Observing this, feeling sick at the inhumanity and necessity of his demands, I sincerely hope that Harry recognises the enormous sacrifice which Ruth has just made for him. Against every normal human feeling and instinct, against nature itself, she is heeding his call and bravely climbing back up to stand with him on the rampart, even though her friend now lies dead at the foot of the castle wall. There is nothing I can do here which will help, much to my frustration. I sense that focusing fiercely on her work is the only thing keeping Ruth together at the moment, and I quietly retreat back to my desk, where I spend a moment in silent prayer, for Ruth, for Danny, for Sam, and for us all. I make a mental note to ask her what Harry said, at a better time; to me, it looked very much as if he was coercing and coaxing her by turns, and I'm not sure which one is worse.

As it turns out, Zaf is not just a pretty face; he has brains too, and he is the one who first suggests that the whole hostage business is a ruse. An ugly, deadly ruse, in order to draw attention away from the real target: a formal dinner with the PM and assorted Middle Eastern dignitaries, at the Mansion House. Once the connection is made, Harry, only slightly pleased that at last we are ahead of the game, despatches SO-19 to the Mansion House. Shortly after, we hear from Adam, voice shaking slightly as he tells us what is happening, something about an implanted bomb, and where Fiona is. Harry and Zaf bolt for the pods, calling for helicopters, cars, ambulances, and backup, with Ruth hard on their heels, in her coat. Harry whirls round, stopping her from going through the pods, talking softly to her, but she pushes away his hand on her arm before squaring up to him, eyes blazing. "_**I. Want. To. See. Danny**_," she grits out between clenched teeth, and Harry actually takes a step back in the face of her ferocious determination.

"Ruth, if there's…if he's…" Harry falters, and she pounces, voice low but carrying with the strength of her emotion. "If he's dead, do you mean? If there's a lot of blood? I'm not a child to be protected from the realities of the life we lead, Harry. If Danny _is_ dead, I need to see it for myself, I need to be there for him. I owe him that much… god, don't you get it? If he's dead, it's because I couldn't find that _fucking _cell in time, no matter how much I searched…it's my fault, and I'll take the blame." Her eyes are like sapphires, bright and hard and impenetrable, as she turns from him and marches through the pods. Harry stares after her like a man who has just seen his faithful lapdog turn into a ravening she-wolf, before shaking his head slowly, and following her out to the waiting car. Zaf, who has stood by, mute, during this exchange, raises both eyebrows and whistles soundlessly, before joining them. No-one has ever seen Ruth openly defy Harry before, much less swear; the shock that ripples around the Grid in the wake of this display has as much to do with the one, as the other.

I watch it all from the relative safety of my little alcove, thinking that for once I do not envy Harry at all; I have never seen Ruth so angry, not even on our first night together when she slapped me for questioning her motives. This reminds me of my plans for tonight, and I go back up to the roof to cancel our dinner reservation, sure that going out to enjoy herself will be the last thing on Ruth's mind for quite some time. It certainly is the last thing on mine; instead, I begin to worry about the intensity of Ruth's reaction on the Grid as she opposed Harry. In particular, her statement about being to blame concerns me. My mind goes back uneasily, again and again, to the conversation we had some months ago about her father's death, and a nebulous sense of foreboding starts to take hold. I must ensure that she understands this is not her fault, nor indeed anyone's except the perpetrator of Danny's murder. I vow to keep a closer eye on her than usual, make myself even more available to her, over the coming weeks – at some point, she will need to talk, to seek comfort, and I fervently hope that it is me to whom she will turn. Me, who loves her so well, and has waited so patiently, for so long. I turn back to my array, and try to concentrate on my work. _What am I doing here again? Oh yes, checking comms…_

It is SOP for all staff entering the field to wear comms; in their haste to depart, I was unable to give Zaf or Ruth any, not that I suppose she would have been receptive to the idea, but I know that Harry carries his Bluetooth earpiece with him wherever he goes. Sitting back down at my desk, I quickly locate their car by its inbuilt tracker, and watch as it makes its way out to Virginia Water; if when they arrive, Harry follows the habit of a lifetime, he won't get out of the car without comms in place. It's a slim hope, but it's all I have. If we were officially together, it would have been me going with Ruth to find Danny; but in this tenuous, shadowy world, nothing is ever so simple.

My luck holds, and my heart pounds when I hear the familiar noise of electronic feedback an hour later, as Harry's earpiece is switched on; I can hear the beating of helicopter rotors, cars driving up at speed, the crunch of gravel underfoot, and the sounds of people focused on their specific tasks – ambulance officers, police, Special Branch…but from Harry and Ruth, not a word_. Maybe she's still cross with him,_ I speculate, as I hear Harry's firm footsteps, followed by a loud rustling noise, and the sound of a heavy-duty zipper being pulled open. I frown, trying to picture in my mind's eye what they are seeing, and then Ruth speaks two words which tell me everything. "Oh, no!" she exclaims, voice soft and shocked; I can hear the tears in the tightness of her throat, and my own eyes prickle in sympathy and in sorrow at the loss of one of the finest young men I have ever known.

Harry's voice says, in a more than usually conciliatory and gentle tone, "I have to leave you for a moment, Ruth." Silence, then, "I'm staying here with Danny", she replies, on the verge of crying; then Harry's footsteps again, accompanied by a heavy sigh, before the earpiece is switched off with a curse muttered under his breath, something about never having a single moment of privacy in this job… Feeing very, very tired, I shut down my system for the night, and walk out into the fine early July evening, heart heavy as lead in my chest. I don't want to go home feeling like this, and I'm not sure where Ruth will be, especially if she insists on staying with Danny's body, as seems likely, so I do something I haven't felt the need for in months…since Ruth and I began, in fact. I walk down the Thames, around to the Houses of Parliament, deserted for summer recess, with only a few tourists about now to admire its Gothic architecture in the golden twilight, and slip into the beautiful old church of St Margaret's near the hulking grey edifice of Westminster Abbey.

As the door closes behind me, I am surprised to see the choir stalls are occupied, and there are perhaps two dozen people sitting in the nave; a glance at my watch confirms that I must have arrived just in time for the end of Evensong. Unwilling to interrupt, I take a side pew at the back, in the shadows, and try to compose myself amidst the familiar surroundings of the church. The congregation stands as the vicar speaks some words, which I know must be the Benediction, and then the choir rises for the closing hymn. Tears begin to trickle down my cheeks as they sing the_ Paternoster, _the ancient words bringing no comfort tonight as the reality of Danny's brutal death overwhelms me, and like Job, I rail against the Almighty Himself.

**Our Father, which art in heaven,**

**hallowed be thy name;**

_That's all very well, but…_

**thy kingdom come;**

**thy will be done,**

**in earth as it is in heaven.**

_My God, was this truly your will for Danny? _

**Give us this day our daily bread.**

**And forgive us our trespasses,**

**as we forgive them that trespass against us.**

_How do we even begin to forgive such men, who execute their captives on a whim?_

**And lead us not into temptation,**

**but deliver us from evil.**

_You didn't do a very good job of that, either, if the thoughts I have daily about Ruth are any indication; and as for evil, this world is mainly made up of it, from what I can see._

**For thine is the kingdom,**

**the power, and the glory,**

**For ever and ever.**

_What's the use of all that eternal power and glory, if You cannot save even one good man from an undeserved death?_

**Amen.**

_You're not seriously expecting me to __**agree**__ with all that, are You_? I rant silently, head in my hands, as the congregation files out past me. I am angry, and sad, and sick at heart, and for once I cannot find comfort in my faith. Even when the last parishioner has left, and I am alone in the deep silence which fills old churches, I cannot feel that sense of inexplicable peace which usually fills me if I sit there long enough. The shadows around me lengthen, and I know that the church must soon be locked for the night, and yet I stay, hoping against hope to regain some semblance of equanimity before I must go back out into the world again.

The first thing that tells me I am not alone is a light tap on my shoulder. My startled upwards glance is met by a pair of shrewd, yet kind, brown eyes, set in a face marked by a hard life_. It must be the churchwarden,_ I think, _come to lock up_, and embarrassed to have put the old gentleman to trouble, I make as if to stand up, but he shakes his head and smiles reassuringly at me. Confused, I subside back into the pew, and to my astonishment, the older man takes a seat beside me. We sit there for a time, saying nothing, just looking into the gloaming, and I am surprised to find that a sense of calm is slowly seeping back into me as we share a comfortable silence. Eventually, I close my eyes, now feeling better able to properly address God, and when I open them, my companion is still there; when he sees me look at him, he nods, then says, "See, you've really got to let it soak in, you know? It's no good people coming in for two minutes, then leaving without finding what they didn't even know they was looking for."

I blink in amazement at this speech, as he goes on, "And sometimes, two's better than one, when you're looking for something. I knew when I saw you sitting there that you'd lost something today…or someone." I look at him, really seeing him for the first time, and I notice that he is dressed in clothes the likes of which I haven't seen since I was a child – an old-fashioned, full cut suit with polished brown brogues, and a watch-chain looped through his waistcoat. In his left hand, he holds a large iron key-ring; _so he __**is**__ the churchwarden_, I think, and frown at the idea of such an elderly man – he must be in his eighties – wandering about a deserted church at night alone, in a city like London. There is something about him, though, a robust quality which belies his age and reminds me irresistibly of someone else…my paternal grandfather, perhaps, who had needed to be strong in order to survive life as an impoverished baronet, and married to Grandmamma to boot.

I force my attention back to the present, and as he seems to be waiting for an answer, I say, "Someone. We lost someone today…a good man, killed senselessly while doing his job." My bitter words drop into the silence like stones into a millpond, and after a while the old man nods. "Ah, I thought so. You've the look of someone who's just lost a comrade in arms…oh, yes" – this at my stunned glance – "I've seen that look enough in me day, I can tell you. Worn it too, more times than I care to remember. It was common enough, during the War. Boys I'd grown up alongside of, blown to bits. Women who had looked after me as a child, killed in their own homes during the Blitz. Men what I ate breakfast with in the morning, and buried the same night. It was a bad time, all right, but we came through it, in the end. Britain came through, when the world thought we was done for." He sits back, then, and with his right hand he gestures to the nearly dark interior of the church. "She came through, too, you know – survived the Blitz, when half of London was burnin', even if we did have to stand on top of Westminster Palace with ack-ack guns on the go all night, and bucket brigades ready to put out the spot fires."

It takes me a moment to realise he is referring to the building. I look around, seeming to see not only the intact stonework, but the courage and determination of the Great Generation which fought and won the most terrible war in history. It occurs to me that in my own way, I am now part of that proud lineage; I too stand on the roof, manning the defences and putting out spot fires. I begin to remember that this is true of us all in the Service; any one of us could be called upon to make the ultimate sacrifice for our country, and today, Danny had chosen not only to die for his country, but to give his life willingly, that Fiona might live, that their son, Wes, might still have a mother and Adam, a beloved wife. It is still terrible, and tragic, and I have not even begun to understand, but somewhere deep inside of me, there is a small, still centre once more, a place from which I can begin to help others to come to terms with Danny's loss.

I turn back to my companion and say, "He died a hero," and the other man nods. "Then he's in good company. They all died heroes, every one of them what gave their lives. Will you be alright now, d'you think?" I give him a half-smile, and reply, "Me? Oh, yes. Thank you so much for…for bearing witness with me. I'd better be getting home now, I've delayed you from your duties for far too long." The old gentleman gets up slowly so I can exit the pew, and we shake hands as I pass. His grip is cool and dry, and surprisingly strong. It occurs to me as I reach the door that I never even introduced myself, nor asked his name; intending to remedy this appalling breach of good manners on my part, I look back into the darkened church, but I can see no sign of him anywhere. I call out, _Hello_, a couple of times, but there is no answer, and with the hairs on the back of my neck beginning to rise, despite all my rational, logical thoughts and explanations for his sudden and complete disappearance, I take my leave, feeling very glad to get out into the fresh evening air.

As I walk out of the churchyard and back towards the Thames, I am sure I hear the solid _clunk _of an ancient iron key turning in its lock; but I don't look around. Some things, I decide, should remain a mystery, and as I gain the riverside path and walk back towards Thames House, I think of the Prince of Denmark's immortal observation to his friend on the subject…_there are more things in Heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy, _then smile at the absurdity of my febrile imagination. Ruth will be interested to hear of my curious encounter…at that thought, I stop in my tracks, just before the curving bulk of Thames House, which, iceberg-like, is far larger beneath the surface, and take out my phone to call her. Her desk number goes through to the night relief officer, and I hang up hastily when I hear his voice. Next I try her home landline, which rings out. Finally, I call her mobile phone – unlike most of us, she has only the one issued to her by Five.

It goes straight to the voicemail which Danny helped her set up, and my heart clenches at the sound of his voice in the background, instructing her about which button to push after she finished recording her greeting. I leave a brief message, that of a concerned colleague checking in on a workmate after a difficult day, and hang up, trying to ignore the uncomfortable feeling beginning to churn in my gut.

I wonder where she could be at this time of night, but once again I am determined not to play the part of the jealous lover by tearing straight round to her house; Ruth is still very much her own woman, and a particularly private one, at that. Just as I pull into my own driveway, she calls me, voice utterly drained, to tell me that she has only just arrived home from being with Harry while he informed Danny's family of his death, and that she is going straight to bed to sleep the clock round, too exhausted to even think straight any more. "But we'll talk, soon…I have so much I need to tell you," she promises me, and rings off, leaving me clinging to the hope that she needs me, and trying not to think of all the time she has just spent, presumably alone, with Harry, as they dealt with the immediate aftermath of Danny's death.

I feel a sudden stab of anger towards Harry, knowing that he will have drawn heavily on her interpersonal skills and calmness under pressure to get him through the worst part of his job, one I know he dreads; it seems that has begun to expect the impossible from her, and Ruth, eager to stay on at Five, has delivered every time – but at what cost? If only I was free to declare that we're together, I would be able to protect her from some of this, intervene to prevent Harry from taking advantage, just as Adam would stand up for Fiona if he felt the need. Despite my (largely irrational, I suspect) fear of Harry finding out about us, I am beginning to wish that Ruth would allow our relationship to become public knowledge, but until she is willing, I have no choice other than to accede to her request for secrecy, or risk losing her altogether.

Resting my head against the soft leather upholstery of the Rover, I close my eyes in sheer exhaustion…I am too tired to think any more, almost too tired to get out of the car. Today has been one of the worst in my life, and all I want to do is sleep. With a groan, I drag myself into the house, trying with every step not to think of Ruth, all alone, full of grief and misplaced guilt over the death of her friend. I fail, miserably, and finally fall into a restless sleep, interspersed with broken and disturbing dreams. _Oh, Ruth…_

_Can I see another's woe,  
And not be in sorrow too?  
Can I see another's grief,  
And not seek for kind relief?_

**A/N: The poem is On Another's Sorrow by William Blake. It just seemed so very Malcolm...**


	31. Chapter 31

It is three days before I have an opportunity to speak with Ruth in private again; at Harry's request, she is not only doing her usual work, but serving as the family liaison officer, working with Danny's family as they struggle to come to terms with the shock of his loss, helping them negotiate the complex bureaucratic maze of a death in the Service. I don't want to know what story Harry spun Danny's mother to explain it all away. The poor woman thinks that Danny worked in the Department of the Environment, Food, and Rural Affairs, for heaven's sake; how will she ever be reconciled with the fact that her only son got up one morning like any other, went to work in a nice, safe Civil Service job, and died? I'm sure Harry will have been sincere in his condolences, that he will have looked Mrs. Hunter in the eye as he told her a plausible lie to mask the truth, and that Ruth will have backed him to the hilt, adding veracity to his tale.

My anger with Harry at involving Ruth to this degree simmers, unspoken, as I observe her trying to be all things to all people over the next few days, at tremendous cost to herself. Her complexion takes on a sallowness I have never seen, her hair, normally shiny and clean, looks dull, scraped back into a plastic clip I have only ever known her use first thing in the morning, before she is showered and dressed for the day; and her eyes, circled with dark, bruised-looking skin, are the pale grey of a winter sky. She does her job as efficiently as ever, and then she leaves the Grid to meet with Danny's mother, his cousins, his uncles and aunts, even his grandmother, answering their questions, helping with paperwork, assisting with funeral arrangements, but it is as if she is not quite here, present with the rest of us; she seems somehow remote, as if she is trapped behind a thick pane of glass which separates her from the world, and it frightens me.

Harry notices it too, if his more frequent visits to Ruth's desk, his concerned glances at her from behind the blinds in his office, his clumsy efforts to engage her in conversation are anything to go by. Ruth seems to accept his unaccustomed solicitude passively, but I can't help but wonder what passed between them in the immediate aftermath of Danny's death. Sometimes I think that he looks at her differently…with more respect, as if her fierce insistence on going with him to find Danny and Fiona has reminded him of the warrior within her unassuming exterior. Or as if he sees her in a whole new light…tragedy often has a way of forging unexpected alliances, on the one hand, and of destroying relationships, on the other, but whatever is passing between them, I have once more begun to feel uncertain of my ground, where Ruth is concerned. I tell myself that this is a difficult time, that none of us are feeling like our usual selves; and besides, there is a depth, an intensity, to her reaction to Danny's death which seems to come from a very dark place indeed, and is far beyond the normal sense of sadness and loss which accompanies the death of a friend, or colleague, in our line of work.

I just feel so helpless, unable to speak with Ruth freely at work, missing her fiercely, and watching worriedly from the other side of the glass, as time and again she beats back her grief, denying herself in order to meet someone else's needs. I know that I must wait for her to come to me; I do not want to make any more demands, or place any more expectations on her. So I do what I can: I take on as much of her routine work as she will allow, and give her the space she so obviously craves, even though every instinct is telling me to hold her close, safe in my arms, and never let her go.

_Self denial, self discipline…_ these words haunt me now as never before, witnessing Ruth's efforts to meet Harry's standards for both. But a vice can be made of a virtue, too, and if Ruth does not allow herself to grieve, and soon, I fear the consequences for her. I can love and support her as much as I like, but I know that grief makes its own way through people's lives, like water finding its level, and the one thing we must never do is to dam it up and deny it, lest it drown us.

On the third day after Danny's death, our paths cross in the tea room; I am making Colin and I a final cup for the day, when she comes in silently behind me, and pours what looks to be a full mug of tea down the sink with a little moue of distaste, before rinsing out a swirl of half-dissolved sugar. I raise an eyebrow in surprise: Ruth does not take sugar in her tea. She sees my face, and shrugs. "Harry. He brought it to me ages ago, but he must either think I'm still in shock, or that I actually like builder's tea." She speaks without humour, almost without inflection, and in her voice I can hear how exhausted she is. We are alone in the room, I am facing the only entrance, and so I decide to risk it.

"I miss you, so very much," I say in a voice just above a whisper – contrary to popular belief, whispers are not quiet, there is a carrying quality to their sibilance, and nothing would be guaranteed to catch our colleagues' attention faster than the sight of us standing, heads together, whispering. Ruth is leaning back against the kitchen bench, just out of arm's reach, looking straight ahead. She nods once, and then says in an equally muted tone, "Me, too." And that is all we have time for, as Zaf comes breezing in to rummage for something in the fridge, and Ruth walks away, eyes downcast. I turn back to finish making tea and realise that she has left her mug; so I make one for her too, the way she likes it, not too strong, with a dash of milk, and no sugar. It's a tiny gesture, I know, but it's all I can do for now, and perhaps, as I see Ruth smile for the first time in days, it is enough: a perfect cup of tea. _Ruth, see how well_ _I know you; I even know how you take your tea…_

The next day, Ruth informs me that Danny's family have agreed to a funeral date, and I offer to call Adam, who is on personal leave, taking care of a deeply traumatised Fiona, to let him know of the arrangements. Adam is grateful, but terse, wanting to get back to his wife; hesitantly, I enquire after her, and his short silence tells me everything, before he speaks in his usual light tone. "Yeah, what can I say, Malcolm, it's been a big shock for her, but she's tough, and she's got me to wait on her hand and foot, and Wes is home for a few days from school…he's the best thing for her, right now. Thanks for letting me know, we'll try to be there on Friday." He hangs up, and I find myself imagining what how it would be if I could speak of Ruth as effortlessly as he has just referred to Fiona. Turning in my chair, I glance across to Ruth's desk and frown involuntarily as I see Harry, standing with his back to me, leaning towards her to emphasise his point. I can just see Ruth's face, haggard with strain and pale with exhaustion; but her eyes are alive with interest as Harry talks. As soon as he walks away, back to his office, she slumps as if her bones have suddenly dissolved.

I would love nothing more than to be able to take her away from all this, but I am keenly aware that Ruth has been deliberately keeping me at arm's length all week; what I am less sure about is why. Colin has already left for the day, muttering something about having to get his good suit from the dry cleaners, and as is so often the case, Harry, Ruth, and I are the only ones still on the Grid. I turn back to my monitor and swiftly tap out a message to Ruth.

_Are you all right? _

**Yes, fine**, she responds a minute later, **just going over the final arrangements for Friday.**

_You look done in. How about a lift home? I'm leaving shortly..._

**No thanks, I'll take the bus. **

_Are you sure? It's no trouble._

**I'm OK, please stop fussing.**

_Sorry, it's just that I'm worried about you._

**Why? **

I blink at her stark, one-word interrogation, trying to think how best to phrase my reply, when I sense that someone is behind me. Hastily, I minimise all windows, then turn around. _Harry._

"Yes? Was there something you wanted, Harry?" I force myself to speak normally, but my voice is higher than usual as the old, familiar tightness begins to squeeze my chest inwards. Harry gives me an opaque look, then hitches a shoulder in the direction of the pods, and turns on his heel. Getting up, I follow him, mind racing as I try to work out what's going on. We pass through the pods, and Harry turns to the left, towards the lift wells. He enters an empty lift car and waits for me to join him, before pressing the button for the roof level. We ride up in silence together, not the comfortable silence of old friends, but one filled with tension. Harry exits the lift first, and opens the door to the short flight of stairs leading out onto the rooftop, gesturing for me to go up first.

Once I am standing in the mellow evening light, I begin to breathe slightly more easily; over the years, Harry and I have often come up to the roof to stretch our legs and snatch some fresh air after a long night on the Grid, or to discuss an operational aspect which is too sensitive for others' ears. Harry comes to stand next to me as I take in what must be one of the best views in London, overlooking the Thames, with the serene perfection of St Pauls in the distance in one direction, and the futuristic structure of the London Eye in the other. Harry is not a man of many words, so I am not surprised that he takes his time before speaking, marshalling his thoughts. Eventually, he says, still looking out at the Thames, "I'm worried, Malcolm." I remain silent, waiting for Harry to elaborate on this statement. He shifts his shoulders uncomfortably, before adding, "About Ruth."

I turn to look at him, noting the colour mounting in his cheeks, the way his fingers are clenching around the guard railing, and my heart feels heavy as I reply, "She's had a dreadful week, and she and Danny were very close." Harry sighs his agreement, before saying sadly, "I know. Poor lad. If only Guy Facer wasn't such a pompous, self-righteous, self-serving worm, Danny might still be alive today." I don't quite know what to say to this, so I settle for a non-committal "Mmmm…" It seems to be enough, as he continues, "She was…very upset, when she saw him, afterwards…I really didn't want her to come, you know, but she insisted." I nod my head, again seeing Ruth's blazing anger on the Grid as Harry tried to prevent her from going to Danny. "She was…extraordinary, the way she spoke to his family, not three hours later…I don't know how she did it." _She didn't have a choice,_ I think angrily, but do not say, reminding myself to remain dispassionate and calm, Harry's trusted friend and confidante. "But what I'm seeing now worries me. Malcolm, it's as if she's not quite…_here_, somehow." Harry is an intelligent man, but he can be remarkably obtuse, especially if it doesn't suit him to acknowledge the truth. Before I can speak, he turns away, headed back towards the stairs. "She won't even go home, and she refuses to let me call a driver, even though she's almost asleep at her desk…"Harry almost sounds as if he is talking to himself, as I catch him up in a couple of strides. "Do something for me, would you, and see if you can make her see sense? She seems to listen to you." I don't miss the ironic emphasis he places on "_to you_", as I trot down the stairs after him, vastly relieved that our interview seems to be at an end. Back in the lift, Harry coughs, before saying, "Actually, there is another matter on which it seems I have been remiss…how is Sam?"

In the mirrored surface of the lift walls, I watch my face take on an even more sombre expression than usual, as I think back to my last sight of Sam, two days ago, in the secure ward at St Thomas', lying still and pale in a green hospital gown, an IV line in her arm. "Ah, well, she's been sectioned, and I've arranged for her transfer to Tring. It's going to take time, but it doesn't look good…she was very fond of Danny." Harry looks down at his shoes, and I realise that he is ashamed for not having been to see Sam himself – but with Adam away, and the aftermath of Danny's death to contend with, Harry simply hasn't had time, and so I had gone myself, concerned for the junior officer. As we reach the level of the Grid, he mutters, "Thank you," and then he is gone, trudging away down the hall, shoulders hunched, hands thrust deeply in his pockets.

I watch him go, before turning and making my way back through the pods and onto the Grid. I understand that, for whatever reason, Harry is giving me an opportunity to speak to Ruth alone, and I am as grateful for this unusual display of tact as I am conflicted about the way in which he has treated her this week, relying ever more heavily on her to share the burden of leadership with him. Adam being away hasn't helped matters; usually it would fall to him to manage the interpersonal aspects of Section D, and had he been here, I'm certain that he would never have allowed Harry to foist the family liaison officer's duties onto Ruth. Adam would have understood that Ruth needed time to process her own reactions to the shock of Danny's death, and taken these unpleasant additional tasks on himself, in the way that he has of carrying twice as much responsibility as anyone else, with half as much fuss. To my mind, Tom will always be the ultimate team leader, but Adam comes a very close second. In some ways, perhaps, he is the more humane of the two; there is a hidden tenderness at his core, the wellspring of his deep love for Fiona and his son.

These thoughts carry me from the pods to Ruth's desk, where she is on the telephone to Danny's mother, by the sound of it. I walk back to my own workstation and close down my array, then hear a tiny _click _as Ruth takes off her headset and lets it fall onto her keyboard, rubbing her eyes as if they prickle and sting with unshed tears: I know how she feels. She stares at her monitor, and I see her face crumple; I'm at her side in a second. "Ruth, please. You've done enough for now – won't you let me take you home?" She buries her face in her hands for a moment, struggling for composure, and when she looks up at me I am shocked by the bitterness of her expression. "But that's just it, don't you see?" Her voice is low and filled with self-loathing, and the despairing sound of it wrings my heart. "I didn't do enough. I couldn't find them in time, and now Danny's dead."

I shake my head, longing to reach out and hold her, but knowing that our every move is being captured on a dozen different internal security cameras. "We can't talk here, not properly. Eye in the sky, you know…please,_ please_ let me give you a lift home," I almost beg, and when she begins to shake her head, I add, "Harry's orders," in what I hope is a tone that brooks no argument. An unreadable look flits across her countenance, before she rolls her eyes in a final, silent protest, and shuts her system down for the night. Relieved that she seems to be cooperating, I hastily collect my coat as she retrieves her outsized bag from her desk drawer, and then slowly walks towards the pods. As we walk through together, I try to guess what's going on in her head – a daunting task with any woman, but even more so when the woman in question possesses the most scintillating intellect I have ever met, and whom I love beyond the power of mere words to say.

I knew she was taking it hard, but now that I understand Ruth is actually holding herself responsible for Danny's murder, I am deeply disturbed. Thinking back to what she had told Harry as she insisted on going with him to find her friend, a chill runs up my spine as I again hear her say, _'It's my fault, and I'll take the blame…' _At the time, I had thought it was shock talking, but now, the pieces of the puzzle start to tumble into place, and I draw in my breath sharply as I reach some upsetting conclusions. Walking next to me, just out of reach as we make our way down to the car-park, Ruth glances up at the sound, and I force myself to smile back at her reassuringly. _I will not say anything, _I promise myself, _not until we are well away from this wretched place._ As we reach my old Rover, parked in its usual spot near the front of the top level parking deck – the earlier one arrives, after all, the closer to the lifts one can park – I open the passenger side door for her, and wait until she is installed, both feet on the floor, bag clutched on her lap, gazing straight ahead, before I walk round to the driver's side and slide in.

The drive home is a silent one, both of us fathoms deep in our own thoughts, and as I turn into her street, I can see out of the corner of my eye that Ruth has fallen asleep, head leaning against the B-pillar. I pull up, but leave the engine idling so as not to wake her by the absence of its comforting hum, and close my own eyes for a moment as I order my thoughts:

_The Havensworth red flash, which turned into a wild goose chase;_

_Harry's growing frustration over the following fortnight, as the suspected terrorists continued to elude us;_

_Ruth's increasing dedication to finding them, driven by feelings of failure;_

_Danny, that last morning on the Grid, happy for once as he spoke with Fiona;_

_The preternatural silence which followed the sharp crack of that fatal gunshot;_

_Ruth, demanding to go with Harry, already blaming herself;_

_Harry's silence at her words of self-accusation; and finally,_

_The brokenness in her voice as she was confronted with the reality of Danny's death…_

Dear God, she really does believe that she is somehow responsible...in that almost childlike way she has of taking everything so seriously, Ruth has convinced herself that if only she had tried harder, worked longer, seen the unseeable, Danny would still be alive. The guilt she is carrying is a soul-crushing burden, and like a medieval penitent, she is dragging it with her wherever she goes.

Harry should have seen this coming, I think furiously, he should have rebutted her _mea culpa_ as soon as she first spoke the words, should have done something to reassure her…and then my eyes fly open, outraged, as another realisation hits: he _did_ see it coming, and he _is_ doing something about it; that's why he left us alone on the Grid. Harry, unable or incapable of offering her the reassurance and comfort she so desperately needs, has sent me instead. _How much does he know, or think he knows, about us? _comes to me in a blind panic, before something else occurs: I am also the Grid's first aid officer, and like a battlefield medic, I am being ordered into the fray to retrieve and patch up the fallen. I grit my teeth, chagrined at the way Harry has played me as he so often plays others, a master angler playing a salmon.

"I can practically hear the wheels in your head turning, you know." Ruth's voice, small and tired, brings me back to the present, and I turn towards her, schooling my feelings until I am able to smile. "Hello, my darling," I offer, and she gives me a wan smile in return. "What were you thinking about?" she asks, but I shake my head, not wanting to begin this particular conversation here, or now; the exhaustion on Ruth's face, plain even in this fading light, concerns me far more at present. "Let's get you inside," I suggest, switching off the ignition, before opening Ruth's door with the little bow I know amuses her. Now, though, she avoids my eye as we walk up to her house. "Well, thank you for the lift," she tells me, digging through her bag, looking for her keys. Her tone is polite, but dismissal is implicit, too. I hesitate, not wanting to leave her alone, but sensing her wish is for solitude. She is so small, standing in the doorway, staring down at her feet; so alone. Before I can stop myself, I reach out to hug her, but she flinches away, turning to open the door. "Not now, Malcolm. Not tonight…I can't, I just can't. I need to be by myself." Hurt, I stand back, seeing the sheen of tears in her eyes as she passes. _I can't let her go, not like this…say something!_

"It's not your fault, you know. And Danny would hate to think you were blaming yourself." I speak softly, but my voice is steady, as I watch her small, forlorn figure come to a standstill in the hallway, ignoring the cats that are twining themselves around her legs and uttering cries of welcome. I step inside and close the door, uninvited, but unable to leave her like this. "Ruth? This is not your fault," I repeat, gently placing a hand on her shoulder. She stiffens at my touch, but doesn't shake me off; heartened by this, I slide my arms around her waist, drawing her towards me until our bodies are just touching. For a moment, she allows herself to relax against me, and I can feel her shaking with the effort to hold in her sobs; and then she breaks away, disappearing back behind the wall of glass. "Please, just go...I'm so tired, and I still have to get through the…the funeral, and Harry is asking so much of me, that if I start thinking about it all, if you're kind to me now, I'll go to pieces…"Her voice is pleading, and she has picked up one of her cats, holding it against her like a shield; she knows that I can't approach her closely, not with a cat in her arms. Already, my eyes are beginning to water, my chest is feeling tighter, and not just with sympathy for Ruth's distress; my wretched allergies are making themselves felt. Defeated, I nod and turn for the door, aware of her eyes on my back. As I am about to let myself out, she says in a tiny voice, "Malcolm?" I look around, my hand on the doorknob. "Thank you, for not giving up on me. I love that about you…your faith in me." Her eyes are locked on mine, saying all the things she is unable to verbalise right now; I give her the shadow of a smile in return, heart too full for speech, and go through the door.

Once safely back in the warm interior of the Rover, I cross my hands, one on top of the other, on the walnut steering wheel, and rest my head on them, fighting back the rising waves of sorrow which threaten to overwhelm me. I ache for Ruth, not just physically, although that has become more and more of an issue since Havensworth, but mentally and spiritually too; there is a bond between us, whether she acknowledges it or not, which means that her pain is my pain too, her happiness my primary object, and to be shut out from her, even though I know she is only acting out of self-preservation, is heart-wrenchingly hard to bear.

Reluctantly, I start the car and head, not for home this time, but for the hills. Feeling the need for some solitude myself, I drive across the city to Muswell Hill, and walk up to Alexandra Palace, its vaulted glass roof glinting in the last rays of light. I recall the history of this beautiful building, how it was destroyed by fire not a month after its triumphant opening, but like a phoenix, rose from the ashes to stand towering over the city once more. As I watch night fall, with all of London spread out below like a twinkling carpet of lights, I begin to feel my pain and anxiety ease, as I am reminded that given enough time, almost anything is possible: even a palace can be rebuilt, a sorrowing heart consoled, or a relationship restored…after Danny's funeral, I decide, I will bring Ruth up here, so she too can be reminded of this simple, yet profound truth. Sitting there, watching the darkness come down to meet the illuminated skyline, I am reminded of the evenings when, as a boy, I would watch the sun set over the rolling hills near Dunvant, from my perch high in the square Norman church tower, my father beside me, his soft voice soothing as he would quote from the Psalms he so loved:

_I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help… _

It is nearly twenty years since my father passed away, and yet I still miss his wisdom, his gentle way with people, his kindly presence; if I have learnt anything from this, the most significant loss in my life to date, it is that we never truly stop mourning for those we love, but we find ways to live with the knowledge of their loss. I must find a way to reach Ruth, to show her this, before she drowns…

**A/N: The verse is Psalm 121:1.**


	32. Chapter 32

Like Ruth, I am mourning Danny in my own way, saddened at the loss of such a fine young man and field officer. He is not the first, of course, but it never gets any easier, and over the last year I had felt a certain kinship with him, as I too navigated the treacherous shoals of falling in love with a colleague. The funeral will help, I tell myself, it will give everyone an opportunity to pay their respects and farewell him; at times like these, even the most hardened and agnostic officers seem to find a measure of solace in the familiar rituals and old hymns. We are all only human, after all…even those of us who make life and death decisions every day; even Harry Pearce, who has buried more colleagues than the rest of Section D put together.

Blessedly, Colin and I have managed to have a couple of reflective conversations since Danny's death, as we both try to make sense of the events leading up to that hideous moment. Colin had known Danny almost better than me, as the two of them would sometimes go out drinking together on a Friday night, when I had to get home to Mother, and he has been severely shaken by the sudden turn that a routine operation took, culminating in that fatal shot. Determined not to lose track of field staff ever again, he has been channelling his anger and sadness into some extremely creative micro-tech: tiny microphones and tracking devices which can be sewn undetectably between layers of fabric or disguised as a tiny button or press-stud. Some of the tech, like the micro-processor, has been developed from the bug I found on the remote control at Havensworth; during the long nights I have put in on the Grid lately, I have been occupying my few free moments by dismantling and studying it.

I discovered that it was an audio recording device, and not the video transmitting unit I had feared it could be, to my enormous relief. Once I had erased the faint, but blush-worthy sounds of Ruth and me against the hotel room door from the inbuilt memory chip, and painstakingly reassembled it, I had passed the device on to Colin for further investigation. He thinks the components are of Taiwanese manufacture – they are world leaders in microprocessors and miniaturised technology – but as to who might have planted it, he finds no more trace than me. "It's not Vauxhall's usual style…could be the Americans, I suppose, but where did you say you found it?" I mumbled something about having been sent to clean house at Havensworth after the ball, and Colin shook his head in bafflement. "It doesn't make sense – most of the bugs we find after that kind of event are either ours or Six's. I suppose it could be something that a GCHQ bod dreamt up, and thought they'd test in the field..." I had given him a one-sided shrug and turned back to my screens, striving for nonchalance, even as a cold feeling settled in the pit of my stomach. _GCHQ_..._Ruth's old stamping ground…_

Images from that night flashed past my mind's eye: _Ruth, struggling with Mace…the Tessina in her hand as she sat in the moonlight...the tiny bug on the remote control in our room...too many anomalies for mere coincidence, but what's the connection?_ Before I could give these thoughts my full attention, Zaf put his head round the door, summoning us to yet another briefing, but I have been mulling over them ever since. All I can do is trust her, and hope that one day she will be able to tell me what was really going on at Toad Hall.

The morning of Danny's funeral dawns bright and clear, a perfect summer's day, in stark contrast to the sadness of the occasion. As it happens, I have arranged for Mother to visit her sister in Bournemouth for a month, as is her custom at this time of year, when London is at its stickiest and most infested with tourists, and Danny's funeral now coincides with the day agreed upon weeks ago for travelling to the old Victorian resort town. I don't like to disappoint Mother, and besides, if I am painfully honest, I am rather looking forward to my annual break, when I am free to do exactly as I please. Until recently, about the most exciting thing I could think of was to attend an occasional evening choral recital at King's College, or take a weekend trip to the Scottish Highlands for some solitary rambling – but now that Ruth is in my life, the possibilities which present themselves are far more enticing…

Certainly, it is not always easy to cohabit with one's parent, but I made my father a promise, in the last, pain-wracked weeks of his life, to look after Mother, and I intend to honour it. So I drive her down myself as planned, leaving at dawn's crack, before returning for the funeral service. I only just have time to go home and change – I hadn't wanted to arouse suspicion by wearing my good suit to drive to Bournemouth – before heading over to the church near Camden.

I arrive at the same time as Colin, and we walk into the cool stone interior together, before I spot Ruth, who is sitting by herself in a pew at the front, and hesitate; should I sit with my friend, or go to her? Colin rolls his eyes in wry amusement (or annoyance, I'm not sure which), and sits down in the first pew he comes to, as I continue on down the aisle towards Ruth,unable to help myself. Just as I slide into the row next to her, and before she can acknowledge me, Harry arrives on the other side, having worked his way through the small gathering of officers and paid his respects to Danny's mother.

At any other time, I would be full of apprehension and anxiety, wondering what Harry was up to, but today I can see it plainly: in his stilted, clumsy way, he is trying his best to be there for Ruth, even as he draws strength from her presence. I can almost feel the energy draining from her as she sits perfectly still, eyes down. I would like to take her hand reassuringly, or put a protective arm around her, but this is hardly the place or time to attract attention or speculation on the nature of our relationship, not with Harry sitting next to her, and an almost unbearable tension crackling in the air between all three of us: two protons, drawn irresistibly towards the same neutron. The nuclear physics of the human heart, it would seem, is a very _inexact_ science…

Silently, we wait in the sombre atmosphere, contemplating a photograph of Danny, taken before he joined the Service. I blink back moisture as I think of the terrible loss for his mother, his family, his friends…and us, his comrades in arms. Ruth's stillness terrifies me; she isn't behind a wall of glass today, she is completely encased in it, like a figure frozen in the deep ice of a glacier. Her sadness is almost palpable, and so is her disproportionate sense of guilt. She doesn't look in the direction of Danny's family, seated across the aisle from us; she doesn't look to the left or right as Harry takes a seat; instead she raises her head, fixes her gaze on a point midway between the altar and infinity, and stares straight at it. She could be a thousand miles away; only the tears that slowly slide down her cheeks, unheeded, tell me that the woman I love is present, somewhere inside that unnaturally motionless form. I move a couple of inches closer, wanting to somehow hold or comfort her, even though Harry is right there, a looming presence which cannot be ignored; she flinches away and tucks both hands in her lap, drawing even further inwards. The message could not be clearer: _don't come any nearer. _I feel as if my own heart is breaking, as I witness her relentless self-reproach. _Oh, Ruth, why didn't you believe me when I told you this was not your fault? _Again, I feel that there is something more at stake here, something I can sense, but not quite see; something that Ruth has carried with her for a very long time.

Before I can reflect any further, the congregation rises for the opening hymn, and with the force of long habit, I try to settle into the right frame of mind for church, just as the lady vicar (_I wonder what Father would have made of that_?) begins proceedings. As we sing, Ruth's normally low, clear alto is barely audible, and I glance at her worriedly as she stands between Harry and me. For an instant I think Harry is moving closer to her… with an enormous effort of will, I turn my attention back to the service.

The vicar indicates that we should sit, inviting us to join in a prayer for Danny, and a reverent hush falls across us all; I bow my head, hands clasped together as my father taught me, and address myself to the Almighty as the vicar intones the old, familiar words. Some days, I feel that I am still only just on speaking terms with God, but in that moment as I turn my attention inwards, I sense that a healing is beginning for us all; the healing which comes from sharing the burden with others who understand the nature of one's loss, and from giving oneself permission to grieve, even in the formal setting of a funeral service. I have seen the desperation and dread with which Ruth has been waiting for this day, and I understand how important it is for her to say goodbye properly. Her eyes brim with tears, and she has wrapped her arms protectively about herself as she sits, lost in her own thoughts.

Just as the vicar's initial prayer is drawing to a close, the altar candle inexplicably goes out…

A second later, a concussive shockwave passes through the cool, heavy air of the church, which could only have been produced by a major detonation close by, and Harry's head snaps up from his attitude of prayer, instantly on the alert, the veteran survivor of several IRA bombings sniffing for the acrid reek of sweet explosives. And then, the red flash comes, an obscene electronic intrusion which each of us hastily silences even as Danny's family glares and we slip, shamefacedly, from our seats.

_Oh, no, not now, no now of all times_, I think, as we troop out of the church and into the afternoon light, and the wail of sirens approaching rends the air…Camden Lock Market is not far from us, and it will be filled with shoppers on a sunny Friday afternoon…_Oh, dear God_… Harry, who is nearly out of the churchyard, flanked by Adam and Zaf, suddenly stops and looks around, instinctively seeking Ruth. When he realises that she is not with us, he chooses to go himself to fetch her out of Danny's funeral; and as he does so, I forgive him for how he has driven her in the last week, and for the anxiety I have felt about their developing closeness, for he is doing something now which none of the rest of us would dare. He could have so easily ordered me, or Adam, back to get her; but recognising the enormity of the betrayal he is about to inflict on Ruth, Harry is doing his own dirty work. _This is why Harry Pearce, and nobody else, is the head of Section D_, I remind myself, even as my worry about how this is going to affect Ruth increases exponentially.

When Harry finally reappears with Ruth in tow, all my fears are realised as I watch her approaching. She looks like a sleeper caught between a nightmare and an unbearable waking reality. Her eyes are glassy, her face is pale, and from the way that she is pulling her coat closed around her, I deduce that she must be cold with shock. There is nothing I can do; Harry leads her towards the street as his car and driver appears, and the rest of us disperse to our own vehicles, to make all haste to Thames House, still trying to take in the unbelievable news: London is under attack. Preliminary intel is that a bomb has ripped through the heart of one of the busiest markets in the country, reportedly causing major loss of life, and our worst fears are realised, all in the space of a few fateful seconds…

_Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;_

_Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world; _

_The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere, _

_The ceremony of innocence is drowned…_

_WB Yeats, The Second Coming_

**A/N: The TV series doesn't give a clear timeframe for when Danny's funeral takes place (i.e. how long after his death it occurs). Harry's Diary says that Danny dies on 4 July, and first makes reference to the Shining Dawn attacks at the very end of August, which take place on the day of Danny's funeral. Six or seven weeks seems a very long time to postpone his funeral without explanation, so I have decided to go with the idea of the funeral taking place about a week or so after his death, because, after all, I can! - Airgead ;)**


	33. Chapter 33

There has been more than enough media coverage about the Shining Dawn attacks, more than enough column inches and newsreel footage devoted to every aspect of those terrible events, some true, some speculation, some outright lies; the point is, I do not feel the need to recount everything which took place following that first explosion, and for reasons of national security, I do not believe it would be wise. So I will restrict myself to the things that most concerned me during those dreadful days.

First and foremost, of course, is Ruth. I barely lay eyes on her after arriving on the Grid, just a glimpse of her disappearing into the briefing room, and then, a short while later I see her back, as Adam chaperones her through the pods, briefing her as they go – I catch him saying, "Professor Stephen Curtis", and "use your natural cunning", but her reply is pitched too low for me to hear. Everywhere I look, there are men in grey and black suits with the look of the CIA about them, extra staff roped in from other sections of Five, and Harry, apparently in five different places at once, directing, cajoling, demanding answers and information and meetings and everything now, now, _now! _

Catching sight of me, Harry waves me over, and tells me to create log-ins for several of our American guests. I begin to protest, remembering what happened when we gave Forrestal access to our systems. Harry silences me with a look – _not now, Malcolm_ – and I subside, but resolve to only give them access to a copy of our shadow system, the one that we let hackers stumble across every now and then, in order to find them when they crow online about having cracked Five. I can drip-feed whatever intel on Shining Dawn the Americans need from us into this copy, without having them running amok in either the hacker-bait system, or heaven forfend, the real deal. I will not have another security breach, not on my watch. Back at our desks, I explain to Colin what I intend to do, and he smiles approvingly at my subversiveness. He spent weeks rebuilding our servers and redesigning the security protocols after Forrestal, and like me he is an adherent of the old saying, _an ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure. _Where the Americans are concerned, one cannot be too careful nowadays, talk of special relationships notwithstanding, and I am glad that Colin understands.

Colin and I exchange glances – his says _Blimey, we're in for a long night, _and mine, _Yes, I know…_ as both of us take off our suit jackets and sit down to boot up our systems and begin to pull up everything Five has on this group, which is not much, as it turns out. We are happy to be out of the main line of fire in the briefing room, where Harry, a hard-faced woman called Juliet Shaw, apparently just back from an extended stint in Washington (and someone Harry is far from delighted to see, if his stiffened back and bulldog-set jaw are any indication) Adam and the cousins are hard at it, playing the old spy favourite_, You show us yours and we might just possibly consider showing you ours, if the risk is deemed worth taking. _Even as information begin to cascade onto my screens concerning Shining Dawn, I open another window and run a search on this Professor Ruth has apparently been sent to tickle for information. I am furious that Harry could be so callous as to send her into the field, not an hour after compelling her to leave Danny's funeral, even as I admit the operational necessity: Danny is gone, Fiona has been stood down on psychiatrist's orders as she deals with her own trauma, Sam is catatonic and lying in a bed at Tring, and Section D is desperately short staffed_. I don't know what he said to Ruth, back in the church, but it must have been bloody convincing,_ I think, as I speed-read several abstracts of Curtis' work, and skim through his college profile, even while surreptitiously rootling around in GCHQ's databases for intel on the terrorists and compiling a briefing for Colin to take in to Adam on what we do know.

I turn my attention back to the page on Curtis, frowning as I read his personal creed: humans are nothing but an evil, all-consuming blight on the planet, other animal species are inherently far nobler and more deserving than us, who are the slaves of technology, therefore we should be wiped out (or at least significantly reduced in numbers). _Why do these types never begin with themselves, when they talk about wiping out the entire human race?_ I wonder, before concluding that Curtis' beliefs are irresponsible academic arrogance on a grand scale, but heady enough stuff, to a certain type of sociopath, the sort that just wants to wreak as much death and destruction as possible, masking their bloodlust behind an apocalyptic creed. I study the picture of Curtis which heads up his faculty profile, and my upper lip curls in disdain as I register his haughty features and hippy clothing (no doubt organically grown hemp hand-woven by some Fairtrade women's co-op somewhere half-way around the globe) and necklace of red beads. In his arms, he holds an even haughtier looking cat, a Burmese, if I don't miss my guess. _Well, at least he and Ruth will have _something_ in common to talk about…_I feel a sudden uneasiness as I look at the picture of the man she has been sent to speak with, and wish that Harry had chosen anyone else, anyone at all, instead of her. When I think of the way she looked at the funeral, as though she was frozen in time, I cannot imagine how she will deal with this smug, self-satisfied, neo-liberal intellectual…but this is Ruth, I remind myself, and she has shown that she has an enormous capacity for self-control and self-denial, and for meeting whatever challenge Harry throws at her.

Just then, Colin returns, and I minimise that particular window as he looks over at me. "So, how was she, then?" he wants to know, and I answer with a long sigh, understanding that he is asking after Ruth at the funeral. "Sad, withdrawn…she's really taking it hard," I reply, careful to say only the obvious, the sort of thing that any of her colleagues might notice. Colin shakes his head, and sighs himself. "She tried so hard, we all did. We're not psychics though, and none of us could have seen that coming. Why is she beating herself up about it, d'you think?" I shrug, unwilling to be drawn any further into a discussion about the woman I love, even with my best friend, and say simply, "Because that's Ruth. She takes her work very seriously, and her friendships, even more so." Colin nods, "Well, you know her better than I do…I think," he adds with a teasing glint in his eye, but before the conversation turns into the minefield it is giving every indication of becoming, we are summoned to the tech suite to assist our American cousins log in.

I know when Adam sends out for food that we will be here all night, and my thoughts automatically turn towards Mother…_Mother!_ She will be worried sick, having by now heard the news, even in Bournemouth. I quickly step off the Grid to find a quiet corner in a service corridor, and dial my aunt's number. She answers in two rings, a new record, and I can hear my mother's voice, high with anxiety in the background, before I even say Hello. My Aunt Emily is as sensible and calm by nature as my mother is, well, not, and for a moment I wish I could just give her my message and ring off; but I know that Mother won't be placated until she hears my voice, and so I brace myself as the receiver is handed over from one to the other. I close my eyes, leaning against the cool concrete wall of the corridor as a frightened torrent of words pours into my ear. After a minute or two, I have to break in to her rapid monologue – I can't afford to spend a lot of time off the Grid right now – and I speak reassuringly to her – _Yes, I'm alright, no, Hampstead has not been bombed, yes, I'll be working through the night_ _to catch them _– and finally convince her to put Aunt Emily back on the line. "Malcolm, dear, don't you worry about anything, we'll be fine together, won't we, Amelia?" her soft Welsh accent undiminished even after many years living in England. I smile, listening to her steady voice, and tell her where I have stashed Mother's pills, tucked away in the false bottom I installed in her beauty case, and she makes an understanding noise. "Yes, of course, I'll take care of that, dear," she says, and rings off. She has her work cut out for her tonight, calming Mother down, but a little Valium in her night-time cocoa works wonders at times like this, or so I have found…

I look down at the phone in my hand, longing to call Ruth, but aware that she is still in the field, and that any unsanctioned contact could jeopardise the operation. I know that even if I did get through to her, that she would say nothing of any significance, partly out of caution, but partly because of her stoicism, so different from my mother's hysteria-prone personality. Ruth is usually the most calming person to be around that I know, and it would seem, from Harry's behaviour today, that I am not the only one to have noticed this particular quality in her… I give in to a moment of speculation about what he could possibly have told her, to get her out of her seat and following him out of the church like an obedient sleep-walker, against all odds, before realising that it is an unproductive and rather unnerving activity. Pocketing the phone reluctantly, I walk back onto the Grid, steeling myself for the long night ahead.

It proves to be a very long night indeed, at the end of which I find myself face to face with a real, live member of what the media calls Generation Y, and she is not impressed, to say the least. She's young, chippy, ticked off with what she calls our "well out of order" behaviour in bringing her in to assist us in identifying a suspect, and beautiful, I suppose, if tight clothes, painful looking shoes, and a lot of makeup on a woman appeals. Certainly, it doesn't do much for me, but Colin lights up when he sees her, and becomes positively animated as we talk her through the process of building a face with our sophisticated feature-matching software. She is appallingly badly informed on the subject of her country's current security and terrorism policies, so I take it upon myself to educate her, and succumb somewhat to her charms, as contrary to appearances, she shows herself to be both bright and curious, two rather endearing qualities. Colin is practically dancing attendance on her, so I happily yield the field to him – I have Ruth, after all, and this girl is less than half my age – and nod permission for him to show her our latest bit of kit, the second micro-tracker jacket he has been working on (the first is out on a field trial). That turns out to be a life-saving decision for our young friend, as it happens…what are things coming to, when even our allies are infiltrated by the enemy, who has no compunction about attempting to abduct, from Thames House itself, a brave and engaging young woman whose only crime was, quite by chance, to see the face of a terrorist?

As our second straight day on the Grid wears on in a relentless race against the clock – set in ten hour increments by the terrorists as they call in bomb threats and cryptic communiqués – I become increasingly worried about Ruth. I guess that Adam must be her handler for this operation, and finally I can bear it no longer. Spotting an opportunity to talk to him alone, I take my courage in both hands and approach him, sitting at his desk near Ruth's empty one. "Malcolm, mate. What can I do for you?" Adam's voice is as bright as ever, even if the dark circles around his eyes and his unshaven face tell a different story. _Be casual, don't attract any undue attention_, I remind myself, before saying in as light a tone as I can manage, "Oh, I was just wondering if we'd heard anything from Ruth?" I shove my hands in my pockets, aiming for nonchalance, but also to hide their slight trembling. Adam looks up at me, his blue eyes sharp at the question, before he leans back in his chair, hands behind his head, and regards me with a long, steady gaze; I blush slightly under his scrutiny, but my breathing remains steady, and with an effort, I meet his eyes.

Finally, he nods. "She's fine, she's been checking in regularly." My face must betray my relief, as I return his nod, turning away, and then I hear him say softly, "She'll be all right, you know. She's tougher than she looks," and there's something in the tone of his voice that alarms me…_he knows! _Dreading what I might see in his face, I glance back at him, and of all things, he winks at me, before refocusing his attention on his screen, face carefully blank. Thoroughly disconcerted now, I walk quickly back to my workstation, wondering all the way just what, or how much, Adam knows, or thinks he knows. Strangely enough, after the initial shock, I find that the idea is not as terrifying as I first thought; perhaps because I know that Ruth trusts Adam as she once trusted Tom, or because I sense that he is a man who knows many secrets, and keeps them all. Whichever it is, I decide not to pursue it any further at present. It is enough to know that she is safe, and that Adam recognises that she is important to me – in what way, or how much, doesn't concern me as much as the simple fact that he understands. Danny knew too, but I don't think he was ever reconciled with the idea of Ruth and me. I resolve to talk to her about coming clean with regards to the existence of our relationship; now, more than ever, I feel the need to declare it on the Grid, if not to our families yet. Even as I scroll through the screeds of information shared with us by the CIA, trying to make sense of documents so heavily redacted that they resemble old-fashioned computer punch cards, a part of my mind is occupied with the delicate problem of what, and when, to tell Mother.

I doubt that she will be delighted, if her reaction to the announcement of my engagement, over twenty years ago, was to take herself to bed with a migraine for three days. Mother doesn't think the woman exists who is good enough for me, or at least, that's what she says – I suspect, rather, that she lives in fear that one day I will actually meet, and leave her for, another woman. I feel drained at the mere thought of that discussion, especially as Mother has become more dependent on me since coming to live with me some years back, after her heart surgery, and in the last couple of years I have begun to detect some further signs of deterioration in what is already a nervous and overwrought disposition. Mother never quite got over marrying my father; the spoilt, pretty younger child of the village bobby, she had set her sights on marrying well, and accordingly had pursued my shy, bookish father with a rare zeal, until he had gone up to Cambridge. After a very lonely first term, he had come back to Dunvant at Christmas, and returned to college an engaged man, much to his surprise.

My mother at eighteen, according to Aunt Emily, had been cock-a-hoop at securing one of the two scions of the oldest and most respectable family in Dunvant, imagining herself as the future, well-to-do mistress of a fine house, until the reality of the situation was explained to her; while my grandfather was indeed a baronet, my father, as the second son, was destined for nothing higher than the very small living afforded by the Dunvant parish church, and that his elder brother would inherit nothing more than the title; my grandfather had invested heavily, and unwisely, in shipping, and the family money had sunk, along with a string of vessels lost in U-boat attacks in the Atlantic during the Second World War. It had taken no time at all for Mother to realise that, far from living in the lap of luxury, she now faced the much quieter life of a country parson's wife, and at first she had been inconsolable. Her parents, however, had refused to allow her to break the engagement on such frivolous grounds, and in her own way she had loved my father, and had been too proud, besides, to endure the humiliation she would have been exposed to in county society. And so, a year after my father was ordained and took up the hereditary living, he married my mother, and brought her home to the small Georgian parsonage next to the church, in which I grew up.

I am no fool; I know my mother is a vain, insecure, difficult woman, prone to histrionics, and as unpopular with the parishioners as my father was beloved, but I also know that she is my mother, and I love her. The thought of introducing her to Ruth is one that I cannot contemplate without trepidation; all she will be able to see, I fear, is that she is being supplanted. I am grateful that Ruth seems to understand that the situation is somewhat fraught; she has never once mentioned meeting my mother, nor introducing me to hers. "I like having you all to myself," she has told me, more than once. Besides, I remind myself as I come to the end of this train of thought, decisions about our relationship are not mine to make alone; I must wait until Ruth is ready. I feel a surge of longing for her so strong it physically hurts; it is more than two days since I last saw her, and almost two weeks since we were last alone together, and at the back of my mind, I still hold the image of her as I last saw her, standing small and still and silent on the footpath next to Harry as his car drew alongside, and he opened the door for her to get in. I wonder how she is coping, caught between grief and duty, I wonder when I will see her again, and with these anxious thoughts circling like carrion crows, I drag my full attention back to the screens in front of me. The only way out is through, sometimes, and as finding Shining Dawn is the only foreseeable way that I will be together with Ruth again, I reapply myself to the CIA reports with renewed vigour and determination.


	34. Chapter 34

When I hear that Ruth is bringing Curtis in, after another attempt on his life on the street early this morning, I am both angry that she has been put in such danger - she is not, after all, a field spook – and very relieved to know that she is returning to the safety of the Grid. I am anxious to see her, concerned about the strain she has been under for the last week; and compounding this is the additional urgency and pressure of the present situation.

As the pods whir open and Ruth steps onto the Grid, Professor Curtis at her side, I watch her from the entrance to the tech suite, noting her rigid posture and the tight line of her shoulders, observing the dark circles under her eyes and the clenching of her fists as she speaks tersely to Curtis. I can tell that she doesn't like him, just as I had postulated when reading his profile; that much is clear, as is her exhaustion and fatigue, etched cruelly on her face. Ruth is digging deep now, running on nerves and adrenaline, as are we all. She is still behind the glass, still unreachable, but she is here, doing what she has been trained to do, and I know that she will not stop until the threat is over. She leads Curtis towards me, a determined look on her face, as he trails behind her, sauntering in a way that suggests he resents being at Her Majesty's pleasure, in a manner of speaking. I begin to understand her distaste, not only for his radical theories, but for the man himself. Colin joins me for a moment, looking over my shoulder. "Oh good, Ruth's back…is that Curtis? What a git…are those _beads _he's wearing?" I _hmmm_ in reply, wondering why Ruth is headed for the tech suite.

I soon find out. Curtis thinks he has seen someone he recognises from Shining Dawn, here in Thames House, and Ruth is intent on using our face-recognition and reconstruction software to help jog the Professor's memory. He proves to be an obstinate and odious man, acting as if it is all some sort of game, until Adam gives him a short sharp dose of reality. Ruth, not wishing to fail again, needles him about his supposedly excellent memory, until he capitulates and cooperates, identifying one of the CIA agents, Richard Boyd, as the operative he remembers from meetings with Munro, their charismatic, albeit mad-as-a-hatter, leader_. Our American cousins_… I feel very glad I did not grant any of them the systems access Harry thinks I did…who knows what Boyd might have done?

This breakthrough is the beginning of the end; but until we find the final bomb, planted beneath a major hospital, with that plucky young woman, Tash, strapped to it for good measure, and Adam comes within seconds of death as he disarms the device, none of us stop. We work on, through the overwhelming need to sleep, ignoring hunger and aching backs and sore eyes and relentless headaches from staring too long into screens, because we must. We are the invisible defenders, the faceless men and women who stand in the breach until the wall is shored up once more and the status quo of our nation is restored, and people can once more go about their ordinary lives without fear, almost without thinking; certainly without knowing how close we have all just come to utter chaos, death and destruction on a hideous scale. After all, Harry will settle for nothing less…

Finally, the all-clear is given, and Harry orders everyone home, on his way off the Grid to yet another meeting in Whitehall. Only three of us remain: me, busily erasing all traces of the shadow system copy the Americans have been playing in, Zaf, and Ruth, both of whom refuse to leave until they have seen Adam with their own eyes. Ruth is dozing, resting her head in her hand as she sits at her workstation, while Zaf is fast asleep, head on his desk in what must be a very uncomfortable position. I am bone tired, my eyes gritty with overuse and lack of sleep, but I don't want to leave Ruth, looking as fragile as a waxwork figure as she waits for Adam. The last two days have taken a huge toll on her, and I am worried. Very much so.

Seeing Adam walk through the pods, exhausted, more dishevelled than usual, but Adam nonetheless, still exuding his particular brand of raffish charm, smiling despite everything he has seen and done in the last forty-eight hours, is like seeing the sun after days of fog and rain. I nod in acknowledgement from behind my array, thankful to see him alive and whole, and he gives me that swift, boyish grin of his, the one that belies his age and life experience, before crossing to where Ruth and Zaf slumber on. I watch as he gently wakes them, seeing their faces light up with pleasure and relief; he speaks to them briefly, and I see her eyes returning again and again to his face, almost as if she cannot believe he is here. After a short discussion with them both, he turns to leave, and Zaf gets up to go too. Ruth is left alone, and, apparently thinking herself alone, she gets up slowly, like a very old woman, and walks over to Danny's workstation, now standing empty after having been used as a hotdesk for the past two days. The deserted Grid is in semi-darkness, but I can see her shoulders begin to shake as she reaches a hand out to touch the back of Danny's chair. I hold my breath, waiting for the storm to break…

And then I stare, disbelieving, as Harry returns to the Grid, his whole body slumping with weariness, shambling across the floor like a punch-drunk boxer, relief plain on his face. Ruth's head lifts, hearing his familiar footfall; and he stops mid-step as he registers her presence. They regard each other for a long moment, motionless, but even from where I am standing, I can see that each is tense, on guard, waiting for the other to move first. For a moment, I feel as if I am watching two fighters circling each other in the ring; but then Harry speaks, and the tension is broken. "Ruth," he begins, his voice deeper than usual, and roughened with exhaustion. She stands like a statue, only her eyes moving as she watches him take a tentative step, then another, towards her. Her hand clutches the back of Danny's chair, which moments before it had been stroking tenderly, and I see her turn her feet inward slightly, in defiance. If she was a cat, her fur would be on end and her tail whipping to and fro. I know should say something to let them know they're not alone, but the words refuse to form in my dry, tight throat. I can't quite catch my breath, either, but I can't turn away now to look for my inhaler; I cannot move. _So this is what being rooted to the spot feels like…horrible!_

"Ruth, I am…so sorry," he tries again, and only her whitening knuckles on the back of the chair indicate that she has heard him. Harry exhales heavily, a sound born of deep frustration, and walks toward her, stopping just shy of arm's length. She turns her head to regard him warily, and her body stiffens further still. Harry's shoulders droop in defeat, as he says, "I had no other choice, Ruth, Facer wouldn't budge about negotiating …he just said they weren't civilians, as if that somehow made things better…" She gives a half nod, but her demeanour doesn't change. Harry, having set his hand to the plough, seems determined to finish, even on such stony ground as this. "I tried, Ruth, I really did. I hate this too, you know, losing a fine young officer like that." Ruth gives him a long, silent look, before shrugging at his words, and turning away. "It's not your fault," she says, and at his surprised look she adds, "I kept looking for them, but I couldn't find them. I failed, Harry, and Danny died." Her voice betrays the pain she is in, and he instinctively moves closer, while my heart stutters at the sight of him reaching out slowly towards her, until at the last moment his hand falls away, back to his side, as if he is unsure or afraid of her response. From behind the glass of her grief, she is still keeping us all at a safe distance, but it would only take the right touch, at the right time, from the right person, to shatter her self-imposed solitude… "Oh, Ruth," he says, and everything he feels for her is expressed in those three syllables. I feel sick to my stomach; _how can she not hear the longing in his voice?_

After what feels like an interminable silence, but must only be a minute or two in reality, she speaks again, her tone brittle now. "Just one day, that was all I wanted, to say goodbye, to, to honour him, but I couldn't even have that…you said you needed me, and so that was that, I was the one without a choice, then. I can hardly say no to my boss, can I?" She wraps her arms defensively around herself, and turns to face him. Harry looks as if he is at a loss, a rare sight indeed, but not one I am enjoying. In the end, he answers her simply. "No, I suppose not. I'm sorry about that too." Ruth makes an odd noise, somewhere between a chuckle and a sob, and I involuntarily take half a step towards her. "You're sorry, I'm sorry, but what good does it do, Harry? What good does any of it do? We're surrounded by danger and death…in the last week, I've lost two colleagues, I've been in danger myself, and we so very nearly lost Adam today, as well…how do you keep doing it? How do you keep living with the knowledge that any one of us could be next?" Her voice cracks, and she stops.

"I don't know. I just keep doing what I've always done, Ruth. Some days are worse than others, some days are worse than anything that Hell itself could let loose; but then there are the days like today, where we win through. Those are the days to live for, even while we remember those whom we have lost…in the end, days like these are all we have." Ruth listens intently, her eyes fixed on his face. When he falls silent, she continues to watch him, until he looks away. He knows he has not told her the truth…not the whole truth; she is not ready to hear it now, or perhaps ever.

Ruth moves first; stepping past Harry, she collects her bag and coat, preparing to leave. He says, "Let me at least call a driver for you," and we are both taken aback as she whirls around on him. "_No thank you!_ I'd rather take the bus…it's much safer, you know. Nice and safe, and full of ordinary people going about their normal lives. I could do with a bit of that, right now." And with those words, Ruth walks purposefully through the pods, and out into the night. Harry watches her go, then shakes his head and says something that sounds suspiciously like "Stubborn mule!" in a voice that is perilously close to affection, before heading back to his office. I take the opportunity to slip out and off the Grid without being observed, and hail a black cab, too tired to drive home after two days straight on the job, and too rattled from what I have just inadvertently witnessed.

Slumping into the back seat, I give the cabbie my address, and close my eyes, all the better to think. Harry is deeply in love with her, of that I have no doubt; what I am not sure of, is how Ruth feels. She has done nothing untoward, they did not even touch, but I am very, very anxious; how easy it would be for him to capture her heart, if he was so inclined. All he would need to do is to be completely honest with her…in addition, I am still deeply worried about the way in which Ruth has chosen to handle her grief, and the guilt which she is feeling. By the time the cab turns into my street, I have the beginnings of a plan…we haven't been much together, in the last fortnight, but with Mother away in Bournemouth, now seems the perfect time for me to play the gracious host, and later, the tender lover…for what else can I do, but try and walk with her through this dark time?

_Ah! dearest love, sweet home of all my fears,_  
_And hopes, and joys, and panting miseries…_

**A/N: The lines are from Keats' **_**Ode to Fanny. **_


	35. Chapter 35

Almost a week passes before I see my chance; a week of watching and waiting as Ruth turns up to work, does her job with her usual diligence, and then leaves, looking neither left nor right as she steps through the pods. She is as efficient and as terrifying as an automaton, bowed under her burden of guilt and grief; and added to this now is the weight of Harry's solicitous regard for her. At another time, perhaps Harry's attentions might have been welcome, but in her current state of mind, she actively avoids him, disappearing off the Grid at odd moments. I notice that she no longer sits at his right hand in briefings, nor spontaneously bursts into his office, nor glances across the Grid at him. Instead, she withdraws behind her walls of glass, and sinks ever deeper into a private world of sorrow.

It is almost more than I can bear to witness, and I am not alone in noticing the change in her demeanour. Zaf, unsure of what else to do, brings her treats from the trendy South Bank cafés he likes to frequent at lunch; little cakes, fruit tartlets and other sweetmeats appear on her desk, only to disappear into the dustbin at the end of the day. Adam watches her closely, but keeps his counsel, perhaps waiting for her to speak first; he is Fiona's husband, after all, and only too well aware of the delicacy of the situation. Two officers were under threat of death; one lived, the other died – and how can the survivor begin to confront the loss of their colleague, let alone the grief of the rest of the team? Harry's reaction to Ruth's distancing behaviour is predictable; he responds in kind, becoming taciturn and gruff with the rest of us, and strangely awkward in her presence. He spends a lot of time at Whitehall, no doubt keeping tabs on Juliet Shaw, our new national security coordinator, and the level in his whisky decanter drops alarmingly, day by day.

Even Colin is more than usually attentive to Ruth, prioritising her tech support requests, offering to help her catch up on the backlog of routine surveillance reports which has built up during the Shining Dawn operation; and it is Colin who broaches the subject of what to do about Ruth with me. He picks his moment with impeccable timing, while the two of us are working in the server room, late one afternoon, running diagnostics. We are alone, and unobserved by the internal security cameras. "Malcolm?" he begins, more diffidently than usual. I slide out the rack of the switching hub I am working on, and raise an enquiring eyebrow. "Look, tell me if I'm out of order here, but how is she? Ruth, I mean. She's been very quiet, since Danny's funeral. Is she alright?"

I stare at him, shaken by his directness, before I shrug my shoulders and reply, "I really don't know. She was very upset by Danny's death, of course, and then Shining Dawn happening so soon after…it's an enormous amount to take in, all at once." Colin frowns, and then steps over to where I am working. "When you went to sit with her at the funeral, you pretty much blew your cover, with me at least. So come on, talk to me. How is Ruth? And just to be clear, I'm asking because I'm worried about you. You've hardly said a word this week." I look at my best friend, and the temptation to unburden myself is almost overwhelming, until I remember my father's words…_To earn someone's confidence, you must first learn to keep someone's confidence; never talk about anyone behind their back, son…_it is a principle which has served me well in this life so far.

"Well, I'd be lying if I didn't say I was concerned for her, as a friend. But I don't really know any more than that. She hasn't spoken to me about it, and if even she did, I'd hardly be in a position to discuss it." Colin nods, his eyes large and serious behind his spectacles, then he reaches out to squeeze my shoulder affectionately. "You wouldn't be you, if you did. You've got integrity. Good luck with her, and if you ever do need to talk about it, we'll go out for a pint somewhere, yeah?" I blush with faint embarrassment at this unusual display, before we both turn back to our work. True friends, such as Colin, are few and far between, especially in our trade, and I know that he means every word he says, but I can't risk it, not where Ruth is concerned. As I methodically work my way down the next router tower, it occurs to me that Colin has just told me that he accepts my relationship with Ruth, in whatever form it may take, despite his previously stated misgivings. Far from feeling anxious at this thought, it is as if a pressing weight on my shoulders has fallen away. _If only Ruth would agree to telling a few key people about us_, I think, _how much easier it would make things._ Harry, for one, deserves to know the truth, even though the idea of actually telling him still fills me with irrational dread.

When my hands begin to grow clumsy in the chill air of the server room, I decide to step out into the service corridor which runs behind it, rather than back onto the air-conditioned Grid; I need a few minutes at an ambient temperature to restore my circulation. Stepping out of the rarely-used back door of the server room, I nearly trip over Ruth, who is sitting with her back to the wall next to the door, holding a mug that I recognise as Danny's with one hand, while she tents the other over her eyes. She is perfectly still, and it is not until I crouch down next to her, my knees cracking in protest, that she gives any indication that she knows I'm here at all. "So this is where you've been hiding," I say softly, as she turns her head to look at me out of red-rimmed eyes.

My heart lurches as I see the tear-tracks on her cheeks, and hear her sniffles; she has been sitting out here, alone, crying, and for quite some time, I deduce by the sodden tissues in her lap. Reaching into the inside pocket of my suit jacket, I pull out my unused handkerchief and hand it to her with a half-smile. "Mother was right, it seems – never leave the house without a clean hanky." Ruth takes it gratefully and dabs at her face, still snuffling, while I shift position to sit next to her, leaning against the server room door. We sit in silence for a while, not looking at each other, just being together, and eventually I feel her move closer to me; I almost hold my breath, as she tilts her head against my shoulder, and sighs shakily. This is the closest we have been in weeks, since the weekend of the Midsummer Ball, in fact, and it is wonderful just to re-establish physical contact, however tenuous; just for this moment, her walls are down, and she is here again, with me.

Eventually, she begins to speak, her voice ragged from crying, "I was unpacking the dishwasher in the tea room, just for something mindless to do, and I found this…someone must have been using it without knowing whose it was…as soon I saw it, I had to get out of there…Danny never let anyone use his mug, not even Zoe…I miss him so much, Malcolm…" I put my arm around her shoulders, and draw her closer. "I know, my darling, I know." "I don't know what to do with it all, all the sadness, all the guilt…I feel like it's pulling me down, and I'm drowning in it…" I turn to look at her, so small, huddled into herself, and I am filled with pity for her. "What can I do to help, my love? Tell me, what do you need?" She answers straight away, "I hate being alone, when I go home…it's so lonely, and everything seems so much worse at night…" I understand exactly what she is talking about; the black dog hunts at night, finding the broken, the lonely, the sad and the sorrowful, and latching on fiercely.

I take a deep, steadying breath - _carpe diem…_ "As it happens, Mother is away for a few weeks… would you like to come and stay with me?" Her eyes scan my face for a long moment, before she gives a tiny nod, and says, "Just for a couple of nights? I couldn't leave the cats longer than that…" I can feel my face threatening to crack into an ear-to-ear grin as I register her reply, even as my back begins to protest. Groaning, I climb to my feet and offer her my hand, pulling her up gently. We briskly brush concrete dust from each other's backs, my heart racing as our hands skim over each other; there is a breathless instant when our eyes meet, and she says, "I could come over tonight, if that's all right…" My answering smile must say everything, as my heart is too full for speech, because the next thing I hear is, "Around nine?" as she turns and walks away, down the corridor. I step back into the server room, and as soon as Colin sees me he says, "I'll finish up here, if you've got something else to do?" his tone carefully neutral, but his face telling me what he is really thinking. I check my watch – it's six-thirty p.m., and for once, I decide to take Colin up on his offer. I need to get in some supplies, I need to make some preparations; I need to go, but first, I need to erase the last twenty-two minutes of security footage from the camera outside the server room door…_at least, if our relationship was out in the open, I wouldn't have to keep doing this…fortunately, the security staff never conduct live surveillance on the service corridors!_

Two hours and fifteen minutes later, after a hurried visit to Fortnum's before rushing home to check over the house, put fresh sheets on my bed, and make up a guest room, in case Ruth just wants her own space, I have changed out of my suit and am standing in my dressing room, wondering what to put on. Ruth has only ever seen me in suits at work, or white tie (_or nothing at all_, a primal part of my brain whispers), I realise, as I contemplate my options, which aren't many – I really don't have much call for an extensive wardrobe. Eventually, I settle on summer-weight khaki trousers, and a Tattersall check shirt. Hardly a picture of sartorial splendour, I know, but I don't want Ruth to think I live in a suit. Next, I conduct a final spot check through the house _– fresh flowers in place, yes, wine chilling, yes, clean towels in the bathroom, yes… _before sitting down to nervously await her arrival, as full of apprehension – _what will she think of my home? – _as I am of anticipation.

As it happens, I choose to sit down on the bench of the old upright piano my mother insisted on bringing with her from Wales, and almost without thinking, I lift the lid, looking at the yellowed ivory keys. I'm not much of a pianist, certainly not to Ruth's standard, but Mother had insisted I learn an instrument, and now my fingers move over the keys of their own accord, picking out first the melody, then the accompanying chords, of Beethoven's immortal Moonlight Sonata, a piece I had first learnt to please my parents, and then had learned to love myself. I play it through twice; no Ruth. Anxious now, I begin another piece, this one a simple minuet by Mozart, wondering all the while, _where is she, and what could possibly be keeping her?_


	36. Chapter 36

**A/N: I know, I promised explanations in this chapter, but it turned out that there was a bit more scene-setting to be done first – hopefully readers won't mind too much! **

Just as I am beginning to feel seriously concerned, my mobile phone buzzes insistently; I grab it from its perch on top of the piano and flip it open, peering at the screen and hoping it is not a red flash. I exhale in relief as I see Ruth's number. "Hello, my love, where are you?" Ruth answers in a strained tone, "I think we're lost – the driver is insisting that we're at the correct address, but it can't possibly be right. We've been around the village twice now…what's your house number, again?" I tell her, and when I hear her sharp intake of breath, and her hurried apology to the cabbie, I hasten to open the entry gates. On the colour CCTV monitor behind the front door, I see her standing outside the gates, clutching her overnight bag in both hands and gazing up at the house, a peculiar look on her face. The gates roll back smoothly, and she steps through as though she is sleepwalking, before stopping uncertainly at the foot of the drive as the gates close silently behind her. I decide I had better go out and meet her, or at this rate it might be midnight before she reaches the front door.

When she sees me hurrying towards her, Ruth begins to walk up the long sweep of the carriage drive, looking around incredulously as she approaches. I meet her at the turn, where the house first comes into full view, and I hear her gasp as she sees it properly. Taking her bag from her, I turn to look at it too. I tend to forget its effect on visitors, as I have so few…

My home started life as the principal residence of a wealthy and eminent Georgian gentleman; built on the outskirts of Hampstead Village, it wasn't quite a country house, but it did stand in its own grounds, backing onto the Heath. I was drawn to its graceful, Palladian proportions and air of serenity, situated amongst gardens which had been allowed to revert to nature in some parts, by its previous, elderly owners; my mother had approved of the separate guest wing (now her own), and the formal reception rooms on the ground floor. I had loved the ancient, gnarled oak which sheltered the front of the house; my mother had loved the formally planted borders from which she could take all the flowers she wanted for her arrangements. The beautiful Adams ceiling in the drawing room was the icing on the cake for me, so to speak; for my mother, it was the discovery of an Edwardian-era dumbwaiter, still in working order. I had bought the house about fifteen years ago, and I had done very little with it since, scorning the trend to redecorate and modernise and remodel which seems to grip our country like a mania, if current television programming is to be believed; instead, I preferred to let it continue ageing gracefully instead.

Now, through Ruth's eyes, I see it all afresh: the time-mellowed red brick, framed in white stone, the three storeys visible above ground, the rows of small-paned windows, the elegant entrance, the formal urns on either side of the door, planted for summer with cascading blue and white lobelia, the lawn rolling away on all sides to the meticulously clipped box hedge which conceals the high wall around the perimeter of the property. Ruth seems lost for words, and is in danger of becoming rooted to the spot like Daphne; so I offer her my arm, and we continue towards the house, our feet making a pleasant crunching noise on the gravel. As we approach the front door, Ruth stops, her eyes fixed on the top floor of the house, before she turns to me and speaks, her voice full of wonderment. "It's beautiful…but it's so big! I feel like Elizabeth Bennet, seeing Pemberley for the first time…is this your family's house?"

I answer with a nervous little laugh. "Oh, no. We were literally as poor as church mice; there was no family money left by the time my father was married, let alone property. But before I joined Five, I had been involved in a media start-up, just on the cusp of the 90's dotcom boom…when the company was floated on the stock exchange, I did rather well out of it. I thought that Mother might come to live with me at some point, so I wanted a place where we wouldn't be in each other's pockets…and I had always wanted to live on the Heath." Ruth watches me closely as I speak, and to my immense relief, there is none of the calculating, speculative look in her eyes which I was dreading; I have seen it before, when people find out. Instead, she takes my hand, and I lead her inside, marvelling that the moment I have so often longed for is here: I am bringing the woman I love home.

As we walk into the entry hall, Ruth's eyes widen in surprise. "Is that an actual suit of armour?" I glance at it, as I set her bag at the foot of the stairs. "I'm afraid so. There are a few things like that about the place, old relics that have been in the family forever…Mother couldn't bear to leave them behind." I hadn't intended on giving her the grand tour, indeed I have only lit the few rooms that I think we might use, but then Ruth catches sight of the library, and she's off, scanning the shelves, happy at being amongst her favourite objects. I watch her affectionately from the doorway as she simply disappears into her own world, tilting her head to read titles, running her finger gently along spines, occasionally pausing to pull out a volume and dip into it. The library comprises my own books, as well as my father's collection, and some from my grandfather. There are works in Latin, Greek, and French; and Ruth could read them all. It is one of the things I love most about her; we are so well matched, intellectually. After a lifetime of being singled out and made fun of for my love of learning, I feel as if I have finally met the one person who truly understands the sheer excitement of attaining and applying knowledge.

Ruth is working her way around the room, making little exclamations of pleasure as she greets books like old friends, when she comes across the well-worn King James Bible, once my father's, now mine. She lifts it out carefully, and turns to the genealogy page; I flinch, knowing what she is about to read there. As she does so, her eyebrows arch, and she looks over at me with a mixture of consternation and amusement. "_Peregrine?_"

"For my paternal grandfather, I'm afraid", I answer as offhandedly as I can manage – I was teased at school for years about my forenames, and am still sensitive about it. "Malcolm Peregrine Geoffrey St John Wynn-Jones", she reads out the whole catastrophe as she approaches me across the Persian-carpeted floor, skewering me with those extraordinary aquamarine eyes as she asks, "Who _are_ you? It says here your grandfather was a baronet…this house…that suit of armour in the hall…should I be practising my curtsey?" I blush fiercely, the colour burning its way up from my throat to the roots of my hair, as I reach out to gently take the Bible from her. "Erm, well, my father's father was indeed a baronet, and the Wynn-Jones have been in Dunvant since Domesday, but my father happened to be the second son, and went into the Church. My grandfather's money was lost, literally sunk, in shipping during the Second World War, and my uncle died without issue, so that leaves me, the last of the dinosaurs." Ruth listens to my potted family history with her usual deep concentration, smiling at the end, "It's just as well, then, that I've always been rather fond of dinosaurs, isn't it?"

I return her smile shyly; I am feeling surprisingly nervous about having her here, partly because I am not used to having visitors – in all the years that I have worked for Five, only Harry, Colin, and Lucas North have ever been here, and only Colin more than once – and partly because I am still unsure about just about everything when it comes to Ruth, especially given her recent behaviour. It's as if she didn't even consider coming to me with her pain and loneliness, following the loss of Danny; instead she chose to isolate herself from us all. From her conversation with Harry a week ago, I know that Ruth holds herself responsible, but to my mind, this is both untrue and illogical; no one could have done more to find the Iraqi terrorists, and none of us could have known that they would be prepared to execute an officer of the British security services in cold blood, merely to prove a point. For that matter, none of us could have foreseen that Danny would choose to sacrifice himself to save Fiona; it is the noblest act I have ever witnessed, and somehow, even given the closeness of their friendship, Ruth's reaction is off. I don't doubt for a second that her feelings about Danny are genuine, but at the back of my mind, I have begun to wonder if there is something else at work here too, something deeper which has precipitated her descent into grief and guilt. Only time will tell, I suppose; Time, the great healer, and merciless revealer.

I straighten up from where I have been leaning against the doorpost, and ask Ruth if she would like to see the rest of the house, an invitation I hadn't planned on extending, but which now seems to be the safest way to proceed, given her evident shock at discovering the manner in which I live. It is, I must admit, a far cry from her little rented semi, but had I not had that quite unlooked for stroke of good fortune, I would probably be living in very similar circumstances, given the paucity of most civil service salaries. It has taken a number of years to adjust to it myself; indeed, I would go so far as to say I am still not completely reconciled with the fact that I do not actually need the wages I am paid today. Some I give to Mother, for what she quaintly calls 'pin money'; the rest, I give anonymously to a number of charities, with my father's voice ringing in my ears, _Take heed that ye do not your alms before men, to be seen of them: otherwise ye have no reward of your Father which is in heaven._

Putting the Bible down on the little piecrust table just inside the entrance to the library, I take Ruth's hand, and lead her through the hall. "Mother chose most of the furnishings in here, so I give you fair warning; be prepared for chintz." Ruth squeezes my hand affectionately, as we walk into the parlour; it's not a room I use myself, preferring the more austere elegance of the original drawing room, but Mother had wanted a place she could call her own, somewhere to entertain the bridge club once a month, and she had settled on this room. Ruth's eye is caught by a family photograph I had forgotten was on the mantelpiece, and it is in her hands before I can stop her. It is a picture of my parents and me, taken one summer when I was up from Cambridge, in the back garden of the parsonage, under a glorious old beech tree. The dappled light through the leaves makes it hard to clearly see our faces, for which I am grateful; but Ruth's keen eye misses nothing.

"Look at your hair! It's almost to your collar…and it's curly!" She scrutinises the image further, while I squirm uncomfortably beside her – I hate seeing pictures of myself – but Ruth simply sets the photograph back on the mantelpiece as she tells me, "You've got your mother's colouring, but you're your father's son, otherwise. I think I would have liked your father…he looks so kind." I feel my throat tighten at her words, and once more I am reminded of how much I miss him. "Oh, he would have liked you, too. For one thing, you'd have given him a run for his money where the classics are concerned!" I am striving for a happy tone, as the heaviness which has blanketed Ruth for weeks is threatening to return: I can see it in her posture, her shoulders bowing as she retreats into herself. I wonder what has started it, when she had been so much more like herself since arriving, and decide to keep moving through the house, hoping to distract her. I show her the dark green formal dining room, where Mother keeps everything covered with dust-sheets, waiting for the day when I announce that we shall be twelve for dinner that night, and could she please order dinner accordingly; the smaller dining room, just off the kitchen, in which we take our meals together, and which is furnished with the warmth of Welsh oak in the farmhouse style; then we go through to the kitchen itself, and the conservatory, which runs along the length of one wall, its glass walls serving as windows into the house, filling the kitchen with light.

My diversionary tactic seems to be working; Ruth exclaims in delight as she walks through the profusion of plants I have cultivated over the years. "These flowers are exquisite, Malcolm, did you really grow them yourself?" she asks, admiring a particularly good specimen of a native green winged orchid, its iris-like blooms a deep purple. "Yes, I like the challenge of working out exactly what they need to keep them happy and flowering. A background in chemistry is a useful thing in more than one way, it would seem." I don't much go in for the showier exotic orchids, the _Cymbidium_ and _Phalaenopsis_ varieties which are ubiquitous nowadays, choosing to concentrate instead on British species, which, while not as spectacular to look at, have their own quiet charm nonetheless. The evening light is fading now, and much as I would like to show Ruth around the garden, I am more interested in showing her upstairs, and ascertaining what our sleeping arrangements will be. We come back inside, although Ruth is reluctant to leave the conservatory, and I lead the way upstairs, towards my wing of the house.

We reach the guest room I have made up for her first, as it is located just off the main landing, and I hesitate _– what if she sees this as rejection, instead of consideration? _before I show her into the room. "I wasn't sure if, if you would prefer your own room, or…" Ruth looks around, and then back at me. "It's lovely, but I've been sleeping on my own ever since…_it_ happened…" her voice trails off, and I see the uncertainty in her eyes – _does he not want me? am I too broken, now? _Picking up her bag, I carry it down the corridor, towards my own room, trembling with the strength of my feelings for her, and the need to control myself…_tonight,_ I remind myself fiercely, _is not about me, but about Ruth, about being there for her. _I pause at the door which partitions my wing from the rest of the floor, bracing myself to allow her into my most personal space, and then I tap in the security combination on the touchpad and swipe my left thumb over the sensor, hearing the familiar click and whirr as the door swings open automatically. I step aside to allow Ruth to go through first. "Just down the hall, third door on the right."

Ruth stands on the threshold of the bedroom, one hand still on the doorknob as she looks inside, and I have to resist the temptation to sweep her up into my arms and carry her across it. I set her bag down and take a deep breath. "Well, this is it…" I reach past her to turn on the main light, and she blinks, before walking towards the centre of the room, where she makes a slow, complete turn, taking it all in. After a moment, I join her. "The bed is something else that came from my grandfather's house", I tell her, feeling the need to explain why I have a very large and ornately carved Jacobean four-poster (minus the canopy – I had absolutely refused to let Mother replace the threadbare original, citing the dust it would gather as the reason for my unusual stubbornness on the matter) in what is otherwise a very unremarkable room.

The floors in my wing of the house are all polished wood – carpet is murder for a chronic asthmatic like me – and my bedroom is no exception. The walls are half-panelled in walnut, with an original William Morris wallpaper in faded red and gold above the wainscoting. A window takes up most of the wall perpendicular to the bed, and when I moved in, I had the fussy, dusty velvet curtains removed, opting instead to install electronic privacy glass, controlled by a switch. Apart from my father's favourite old armchair, a pair of bedside tables, and the window seat that was added sometime in the Victorian era, there is nothing else in the room. A connecting door goes through to my even simpler dressing room, and down the hall is the black-and-white tiled bathroom. Ruth explores these silently, reminding me of a cat, set down in unfamiliar territory, but curious to see its new surroundings, while I wonder if I should go downstairs and prepare our supper. Just as I am about to do so, she returns from her reconnaissance, shaking her head in disbelief or amusement, I'm not sure which, as she sits down on the bed; evidently, she is feeling at home. She pats the counterpane next to her, indicating that I should join her, and somewhat apprehensively, I do.

"I feel as if I've fallen down the rabbit hole," she begins. "I knew you lived with your mother, so I'd somehow gotten it into my head that _you_ lived in _her_ house…but this, this is so far from what I had imagined…I had no idea…I feel as if I don't know you at all." My heart sinks at her words – I had been afraid that something like this might happen – and I take her hand as it lies in her lap, seeking to re-establish contact. "My darling, I'm still the same man, sitting here beside you…how does seeing where I live, or how I live, change that?" She looks away, gathering her thoughts, while I wait in an agony of nervousness for her to speak. "I don't know, but it does. You don't actually _have_ to work at all, do you?" I involuntarily grip her hand tighter, and she yips in protest.

I hastily release her hand, and dip my head, trying to make eye contact; when I finally succeed, I speak as quietly as I can, belying the gathering storm of emotions behind my words. "Ruth, listen to me. You're right, I don't have to work ever again, if I so choose. I have been tremendously fortunate, some would say blessed, in that way. But I come from a long line of men who have always served our country and our community. I chose to work for Five because I wanted to continue that tradition, and my skills seemed a good match for the Service. I wanted to give something back, after I had gained so much, and I wanted to make a difference. That sounds idealistic, I know, but I really do believe in the work we do, the lives it saves…and besides, can you imagine what I'd be like if I didn't have something meaningful to get up for each morning? My brain's not built to stay idle, it would soon tear itself apart like a racing engine if I didn't give it work to do. I'm not meant to lead a life of indolence, but of service. It was drummed into me from a very early age, along with my Latin and Greek verbs. I can promise you, having money hasn't made a whit of difference to who I am. If it had, I would be living _la dolce vita_ in Tuscany, or sailing around the Caribbean on my private yacht…"

Ruth gives me the tiniest smile, at these last words, and says, "You'd be burnt to a crisp…does anyone else know? About this, I mean," as her hand moves gracefully through the air to indicate my home, and everything in it. "Only Harry, of course, and Colin…for obvious reasons, I don't talk about it at work. It's nobody else's business, and I am all too aware of the pitfalls that can occur when there is jealousy or malcontent in a team. Far better to say nothing, don't you agree?" I watch her swiftly analysing everything I have told her, and finally she nods. "It was just a bit of a shock, seeing it for the first time…it's a long way from the Fifties mock-Tudor villa I grew up in, near Exeter. It's why I was so late, getting here – when the cab pulled up in front of those gates, I just couldn't believe my eyes, so I made him drive right round the village again. I had been expecting a terrace, or perhaps a mansion flat…certainly nothing like this! And then, when I saw it up close, it just seemed so right for you, so very Malcolm, that I couldn't imagine how you had put up with my little place, full of cats and clutter…" I put my arm around her shoulders. "I wouldn't care if you lived in a tent on Exmoor, and had twenty cats…although I would probably have to increase my antihistamines" – she laughs a little at that – "I love you, Ruth, and all the money in the world wouldn't change that." Ruth's eyes, huge and dark, in the dimly lit room, hold mine hypnotically, as she gently takes my face between her hands. "I'm going to kiss you now, Malcolm Peregrine Geoffrey St John Wynn-Jones, if that's quite all right with your Lordship?" And before I can answer, she does, leaving me breathless to protest the incorrectly attributed title.

My head is in a whirl; this is the Ruth I know and love, but the change in her is so sudden, I am finding it difficult to keep up. For almost two weeks, she has been inside her private bubble of grief, and the rest of us have stepped around her as if walking on eggshells; and now this? My body, however, has no such reservations, as is becoming more obvious by the second. Ruth moves into my arms, and the kiss becomes a full embrace. Eventually, she sits back, smiling. "Oh, I've missed this…I've missed you, Malcolm." "And I, you," I reply gravely, "but I don't understand something, Ruth…I've been right here…why didn't you come to me before, if you were feeling so dreadful about Danny?" She looks away. "It's complicated," she says softly, "and I don't want to talk about it right now…" _Of course not,_ I think, frustration and concern merging. Aloud, I suggest that we go down to supper, and she happily accepts. As we go, I disarm the security for my wing, so that she can come and go as she likes; when she raises an eyebrow at the sophistication of the system, I simply say, "Colin" and she smiles. "I wanted to make sure that I would have a secure place, in case I needed to bring work home…"Ruth adds, "Or keep people out," in a dry tone of voice that suggests she is onto me and my hermetic tendencies.

Supper is a simple affair; poached salmon, that the nice lady in Fortnum's has given me precise instructions for heating up, along with a little tub of Béarnaise sauce and a wink. I have already scrubbed some new potatoes, and soon they are boiling nicely, while I wash watercress and Ruth slices tomatoes for a salad. I had wanted to do it all myself, and serve Ruth as a proper guest, but she had insisted on coming into the kitchen to help, and I am surprised at how pleasant it is to be doing something as mundane as preparing food with her. Mother never allows me into the kitchen, other than to do the drying-up. All my life, I have been perfectly content with this division of labour; but now I understand the primal attraction of making food for one's lover. It is quite different to pouring a bowl of Weeties for oneself, or eating a hasty ready meal; it is, dare I say it, _sexy_ – and that is not a word I would ordinarily apply to anything I do. When all is ready, I invite Ruth to go through into the informal dining room. She glances longingly towards the conservatory…_of course, why didn't I think of that myself? _ "Just wait in there one minute," I beseech her, guiding her towards the dining room, before racing back into the kitchen.

It takes me five minutes, not one, but when I am satisfied that everything is in place, I reappear in the dining room, where Ruth is waiting with a glass of Chablis and a patient look on her face. I glance at my watch – _heavens, it's almost eleven o'clock!_ – and proffer a folded napkin. "If you wouldn't mind…I want to surprise you, so…" she nods, and obligingly allows me to blindfold her. I tuck her hand under my arm, and lead her carefully towards the conservatory. As we step inside, I move behind Ruth to untie the blindfold, and at her gasp of delight, I fold my arms around her and drop a kiss onto her hair. "Is this what you had in mind?"

The conservatory is lit by dozens of candles, their soft light gleaming against the silver of the formal candelabra which I have brought from the green dining room, along with two balloon-backed chairs and a small card table, now covered by a damask cloth, our plates already set out on it. A Victorian monstrosity of an ice bucket holds the Chablis. Through the roof, the faint starlight of London can be seen, and best of all, there is a moon, not quite at the full, but shining brightly on this clear summer's night. The plants seem to glow from within in the soft light, and on the table I have placed a tiny vase of freesias, picked from beneath my favourite oak, their sweet scent soft on the air. Ruth turns to hug me with joy, and I know I that got it right. "Oh, Malcolm, it's perfect…" I pull out her chair for her, before taking my place opposite, and we begin to eat, after toasting each other with the lovely old crystal goblets I so rarely use; but tonight is an occasion worthy of the best china, the family silver, and the finest linen. I am glad, for more than one reason, that Mother is away in Bournemouth…

I am feeling slightly light-headed, and not just because of the wine, or the lateness of the hour, nor even because Ruth is finally here with me, at home; I can't quite identify it, other than as a dreamlike sensation of euphoria, which I finally recognise as being pure joy. In that moment, I realise that I want this forever: Ruth, living here with me, making my house her home; in the next, I see how impossible a dream this is. Even if Ruth were to consent, should I propose to her, there is still the vexed question of what to do about Mother. I would not ask Ruth to live with me under any other circumstances – I know that I am old-fashioned when it comes to these things, and as much as I enjoy and even crave the physical side of our relationship, if I am entirely honest, I still feel a kind of residual guilt over it, although Ruth has made it clear that she has no problem with the status quo. I could blame my strict upbringing, or my religious beliefs, I suppose, but it what it really boils down to this: I want Ruth, body, mind and soul, and I want to make it official, in front of all the world..._God help me, I want to marry her, but I can't…we can't even tell our colleagues, far less our families…_I must make a noise of some sort, because Ruth raises her eyes from her plate, and asks if I am all right. "Yes, sorry, I think I just swallowed a bit of bone," I reassure her, taking a long draught of wine. Ruth frowns at my unfairly maligned salmon, and says, "They should have made sure to take out all the pin bones first…where did it come from again? Harrods'?" I chuckle; she is pulling my leg. "Fortnum and Mason, actually. They do a far superior class of salmon there…" _Good, keep it light, keep her smiling, until this odd pain in my chest passes off…she mustn't know._

I pour more wine, then clear our plates and bring in dessert – I'm not much of a sweet tooth, usually preferring some cheese and fruit at the end of a meal, but I have heard Ruth's opinions on cheese before bedtime before, so I have bought a summer pudding, with clotted cream to go with it; her face lights up at the sight. "I haven't had this since I was a child," she tells me, spooning the rich yellow cream onto her pudding, "when Dad used to take me berrying, and then we'd stop at this little farm on the way back, and buy clotted cream. He would only allow me to have it about once a year, so it was such a treat…" she closes her eyes in bliss as she savours the first mouthful, and I smile at the expression on her face. She must have been a sweet, serious child; I'm sure, like me, she would have been a bookworm. "What are you smiling at?" she wants to know, so I tell her, "I was just wondering what you were like, as a child, berrying along the hedgerows with your father. Did you have a book in one hand, and a bucket in the other?"

The light dies in her eyes, as I wonder what I've said. Getting up from the table abruptly, Ruth leaves the room. I sit there uncomfortably for a minute or two, debating whether or not to go after her, and then she returns, holding something small and flat in her hand. Sitting back down, she hands me a Polaroid shot, slightly crumpled at the edges. It shows a girl of about ten, dressed in denim dungarees, dark hair tied up in a kerchief, standing next to a stocky, smiling man; the girl's eyes are the same as the man's, a piercing blue-green. Both are holding buckets filled with berries. "No book, but otherwise…sometimes I think you must be psychic. How did you know?" I shrug, "Just a lucky guess. Oh, you have your father's eyes..." I pause as she delicately takes the photo back to study it for what must be the millionth time, judging by the feeling of the paper at its edges. In a low voice, she begins to speak, almost as if she is addressing the image she is holding. "I was so happy, that day…we had gone down to Lulworth Cove, because I wanted to look for fossils…I was going through a big archaeology phase, at the time. We didn't find any though, and I was very disappointed… to cheer me up, Dad suggested picking berries on the way home, and we got loads…Mum was surprised to see us turn up with buckets full of blackberries, instead of pebbles and shells, so she got the camera out." I reach across the table to take her hand, bringing it to my lips to brush a kiss on it, wanting to show her that I understand, and she looks up at me through her lashes. "I'm so tired, I'm rambling…I'm sorry, Malcolm, but I really need to go to bed." And so we do.

Going to bed, I soon discover, means exactly that; Ruth emerges from the bathroom in striped cotton pyjamas, and curls herself into the far side of my bed. I hasten to join her, but by the time I slide in next to her, also pyjama-clad, she is almost asleep, worn out from the events of the last couple of weeks, and the novelty of her discoveries today. As the bed shifts beneath my weight, she rolls over, her back towards me, so that I can wrap myself around her in the way that she likes, and her breathing subsides into a regular, slow rhythm; the last thing I hear her say is "_Peregrine_…" her lips curving into a smile. I try to stay awake for a little longer, drinking it all in: Ruth, in my arms, and in my bed, at last, but inevitably I follow her into a deep and dreamless sleep; all my dreams are here beside me, and at the moment that I finally succumb, there is nothing more I could wish for in this world…almost.

When I wake, sometime in the wee hours, she is gone.

**A/N: The Bible verse is from Matthew 6:1-4, King James Version.**


	37. Chapter 37

I scramble upright, heart lurching, looking for Ruth; she is not in the room. Swinging out of bed, I don't even stop to put on slippers before I go to find her, padding swiftly down the hall in my bare feet. I peek into the guest room outside my wing; no Ruth. I go downstairs, turning on lights as I go, checking all the rooms_. It's the middle of the night, and her clothes and bag are still upstairs, so she can't be far_…I check the library, thinking she may just be looking for something to read, but the room is empty. I turn back towards the kitchen; as I enter, I notice that the conservatory door is ajar, and looking through it, I see her, silhouetted in the grey pre-dawn light against the glass. She is sobbing silently, her shoulders shaking. I cross to her quickly, and she struggles for self-control, knuckling her fists into her eyes as I approach. "I'm sorry…I didn't mean to wake you," she gets out between sobs. I sigh, and pull her into a tight hug. "Tell me, my darling…please, talk to me. What is this thing, this terrible sorrow, that is eating you alive?" Ruth stiffens, and she chokes out, "I can't…I can't…" she buries her face in my pyjama jacket, and weeps like a child bereft.

It is very late, I am tired, I am beyond worried for her, and now, I am determined to get to the bottom of this. "You can tell me anything, anything at all…" she shakes her head against my chest, and I gently lift her chin with my finger so I can look her in the eye. "I'm sorry, but this has gone on long enough. Surely you don't want to end up at Tring?" My voice is firm, despite the hammering of my heart; her eyes flare in shock at the mention of Tring_,_ but she says nothing. "I think Harry's started to wonder if he should refer you to one of our psychologists, along with Fiona. He's worried about you, we're all worried about you, but we don't know how to help you, if you won't speak about it." Ruth stares at me in disbelief; I hold her gaze until she looks away. Eventually, she nods, shivering, and I register the chill of early morning for the first time since I shot out of bed in alarm. "Come back upstairs, where it's warm, and we'll talk."

Once we are back in my room, I guide her to the armchair, which I turn to face the window seat where I settle myself, after fetching my soft, old wool dressing gown and draping it around her shoulders. Clutching it closely, she is silent for a long time, but I wait patiently, my eyes on her face, until she begins to speak, her voice small and colourless. "I haven't told you about how my father died," and when I frown and interject, "Yes, you did, it happened when you were eleven, in a car accident," she holds up a hand to stop me. "That's right," she confirms, "but I haven't told you why he died." She looks down at the floor, and sniffs. There are few things more objectionable than someone sniffing; I get up to fetch a couple of handkerchiefs. She dabs at her eyes, and blows her nose with one; the other, she wrings the life out of, twisting it endlessly between her hands as she continues.

"It happened at the end of July, three months after I turned eleven. I had gone into town to visit the library, because I had read everything at home, and somehow I had lost track of time...Mrs Peters, the librarian, found me, halfway through _The Hobbit,_ curled up in a beanbag in the corner, just as she was about to lock up for the night…our house was a few miles outside of Exeter, and I had missed the last bus I was allowed to catch…Mrs Peters let me use the phone, and I called home. Mum was upset with me, because Dad had only just arrived home from work…she called me thoughtless, and irresponsible…but Dad took the phone away from her, and told me that he'd come and get me; he understood perfectly, for who wouldn't lose themselves when reading Tolkien for the first time?"

Ruth's voice trembles, and all I want to do is to gather her into my arms, but I daren't break into her reverie, now that she is finally talking. " 'I'll be right there, Ruthie, quick as a wink,' he said, and rang off. That was the last time I ever spoke to him…he was killed as he was coming to collect me. A Continental lorry driver had fallen asleep at the wheel, and his vehicle veered headlong into Dad's car…" her voice is barely more than a whisper, and I lean forward to catch her words…"I thought it was my fault…they trusted me to do what I was supposed to,but I wasn't where I said I would be…and my father died because I was too busy enjoying myself to bother about the time…" My heart is wrenched with pity and compassion as I begin to see where she is headed. Ruth draws a shuddering breath; this is taking a huge toll on her, but she seems determined to see it through.

"I told you, before, about being sent to boarding school…I thought I was being punished, that it was because of me that my father had died…I wasn't even allowed to go to his funeral, because the adults thought it would only upset me…as if I could be any more upset…" she looks up at me, for the first time since she has started to speak, and her eyes glitter with unshed tears. "I never felt that I was able to mourn my father properly, and it did something to me… it was as if I was stuck, unable to move forward…I couldn't talk about it, so I just bottled it up and carried it with me for years..." a long silence ensues, and then she says shakily, "When I missed the red flash at Havensworth, and I couldn't find that terror cell, I felt awful…I kept thinking, if only I'd gotten back to the Grid earlier, if only I hadn't been off duty that weekend…and then, D-D-Danny died…I so wanted to say goodbye to him properly, and when Harry pulled me out of the funeral…it felt as if it was all happening again, that I was never to be allowed to grieve the ones I love…it was overwhelming…and then, to have the weight of Harry's expectations dumped on me…" her gaze drops back to the handkerchief she has worried into a wrinkled, twisted mess during her agonised confession.

I nod, aching as I witness the depth and intensity of her pain, considering everything she has just told me, and a few things she hasn't. _So, Harry applied emotional pressure, to get her out of the funeral…why am I not surprised?_ I seethe inwardly, even while I acknowledge that he is, after all, the Head of Counter-Terrorism first, and a man who is in love with his employee, second. _I would expect no less of Harry bloody Pearce, his sense of duty always comes before anything else, and it's a good thing for the country that it does, but dear God, sometimes it comes at a high cost…_I drag my mind back to the here and now, focusing on the problem as I see it; somehow, it seems that two very different, but equally traumatic, sets of events have become inextricably enmeshed in Ruth's psyche, and neither has been properly resolved. No wonder, then, that she has chosen to retreat behind the walls she first erected as a confused child, bewildered and lost in her grief, and burdened by misplaced guilt.

Leaning forward, I take the ruined handkerchief from her, gently enfolding her hands in mine, and begin to speak, choosing my words carefully. "My darling, none of this is your fault, none of it. Your father's death was a tragic accident but it occurred because he was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time, and yes, Danny died on our watch – _our_ watch – but he made a choice too, Ruth. He didn't die because you went to the Midsummer Ball, or because you couldn't find that cell – none of us could; not Adam, not me, not even Harry. If you really want to blame someone for his death, blame the psychopath who pulled the trigger…or those men in planes, that bright September morning in New York, who changed our world forever…" As I speak, her eyes have risen to meet mine, still shimmering with tears. I can bear it no longer. _What can I do or say, that will ease her pain? How can I help her to see the truth? _

"I've never told anyone this before," I start hesitantly, "But, when my father died, I wasn't there. Every other weekend, for the year that he was ill, I went home, except for that one. I was so tired from shuttling endlessly between London and Wales, and I just wanted one weekend to myself. The doctors said he was stable, Mother seemed alright for once, and so I stayed home, and that Sunday morning, he died…I felt so guilty, as if he had died without knowing how much I loved him, because I wasn't there…I was a terrible son, who had failed him when it mattered most. I could hardly look people in the eye at his funeral… I was sure they would see what a selfish person I was. My father was the bedrock of my world, yet I hadn't made the effort to drive a few hundred miles for him…I even began to think that if I had been there, it would have made the difference, somehow. I soldiered on, for a while: I went to work, I spent time with my increasingly distant fiancée, I drove back to see Mother each fortnight, enduring her reproachful looks and pointed silences, all the while feeling as brittle and hollow as a dried reed drifting on the current. And then, one night, when I was in Dunvant, I thought I would go up to the church tower, where my father and I used to look out over the valley. It was so peaceful up there, so beautiful; and as I stood there alone in the dusk, a thought came to me." I pause, the lump in my throat making it difficult to continue; Ruth's eyes beseech me to go on, but I cannot look at her as I recount one of the most painful moments of my life; I focus on our joined hands instead.

"I realised that everything I was looking at, was exactly as it was, when I had last stood there with my father; nothing had changed out there, even though my world had fallen off its axis. And it was so unfair, so unfeeling, that I could hardly breathe…my father was such a good man, but he had died in terrible pain…and yet here, there was no sign of it. It seemed as if the valley should have been laid waste at the injustice of it all, blackened with sorrow at his passing…I had never felt so alone in my life, as I did at that moment; and then, it struck me that the view from the tower in a hundred years' time would be much as it was now, and would have been exactly the same, whether I had been at my father's bedside or not; and I knew that the blackness and sorrow was really within me, poisoning me, and that this is not what he would have wished for me …I wept, then I howled, is the only word for it, until I thought I would be ill, until no more tears would come…it was dreadful, and soul-rending, and utterly, utterly necessary…and when I had finished, I felt the first peace I had known since my father died."

As I finish speaking, I am aware that the very air in the room seems to be charged with emotion, with the relief of sharing deep secrets long held, and I look up to see Ruth's face, lit by the rosy light of dawn, which has crept in on us unawares; her eyes are filled with sadness, and compassion, and yes, the faintest beginnings of hope. I know that this is just the beginning, but I can sense that the walls with which she has surrounded herself for so long are starting to crumble."Come here," she whispers, before kissing me with more ardour than I have ever known; and still holding her by both hands, I lead her back to bed.

Our joining is the most shattering experience of my life thus far; as we merge, I feel that our very souls, battered and bruised as they are, are melding, so erotic and tender is our lovemaking. We begin slowly, delicately, each careful of the other, rediscovering all the pleasures our bodies are capable of affording, but tempered with a certain rawness too, the tattered edges of grief giving way to a new, deeper vulnerability, as terrifying as it is exhilarating. Afterwards, I feel not quite real, until Ruth, lying on my chest, limp and boneless from our exertions, begins to snore softly, and the sunlight starts to slant across the floor towards the bed, proving that this is no dream.

Neither of us has to go into work, and when we finally rise, late in the morning, I set out to show Ruth the rest of the house; I haven't stayed in my pyjamas past seven o'clock since I was a child, but today feels like a long-awaited Christmas morning... When she sees the drawing room, simply furnished with a pair of long Chesterfield sofas in oxblood leather, a fine silk carpet, and an elegantly carved fireplace, her only comment is "It's a very…restrained …room," until she looks up and her mouth falls open in astonishment. "Is that a Robert Adam ceiling?" I nod, enjoying her surprise as she takes it all in: the delicate plaster curlicues, the exquisitely rendered figures in the central and corner medallions, the sheer size and scale of it. "I've only ever seen anything like this in English Heritage or National Trust properties…how can you bear to leave this amazing house?"

Chuckling, I pull her down onto one of the Chesterfields, and stretch out at full length; she copies me, snuggling into my side as I slip an arm around her. "When I've had a particularly trying day, I sometimes come in here, and lie down, just like this, and lose myself in the beauty above…I think of all the people who have met here, all the things that have occurred beneath this roof…it gives one quite a sense of perspective, really." Ruth is listening to me, but her eyes are roaming over the ceiling; soon she begins to point out this couple, or that figure in the cornice, and together we make up stories about the paint and plaster people, forever dancing overhead. Ruth laughs out loud, the first time I have heard her laugh in weeks, and once more I feel a nearly overpowering urge to ask her if we can finally come clean…after all, Colin knows, Adam seems to know, and God only knows what Harry knows; but I hesitate, afraid of what her answer might be. _Not yet, not just yet…be patient, _I counsel myself. Ruth, meantime, has propped herself on one elbow, while deftly unbuttoning my pyjama jacket with her other hand.

Mildly shocked – it's broad daylight, and we are in a formal reception room downstairs, not my bedroom – I close my eyes in surrender as she leans over, caressing my skin with a touch so light she barely brushes the fine hairs; I shudder in pleasure as gooseflesh rises beneath her fingers, and she plants butterfly kisses down my sternum, the ends of her hair tickling me as she moves. "Pears'," she says, unexpectedly, and I peer at her, nonplussed. "You smell of Pears' soap, and warm cotton, and old leather – but perhaps that's just the sofa…" She breathes deeply, and moves to lie on top of me, her eyes bright blue as she rests her chin on my chest. The feeling of her soft body against mine is incredibly distracting, as I shift my weight to settle her more comfortably. "It has such an old-fashioned scent, Pears'…it suits you." I thank her for the compliment, wondering where her mercurial mind is leading us now. "It makes me feel safe…you make me feel safe, Malcolm."

And then I hear myself say, as I interlace my fingers through hers, "Ruth, don't you think it's time that we admitted we're together? It would seem that people might have started to suspect something's going on…" I trail off as her body goes rigid, and she rolls off, disentangling our hands, and crosses to the sofa opposite; I sit up, buttoning my jacket in consternation. _Too much, too soon... damn! _

_"_Who?" she says sharply, and I regard her warily. "Well, Colin worked it out, and I think Adam must have too…he certainly knows something, anyway. You didn't seem to mind Danny finding out…what do you imagine is going to happen, if people did know about us?" Ruth stares at me. "Danny was never meant to find out, and I've told you before, I don't want them to talk about us…I won't be gossiped about." I sigh, "My love, people already are speculating about us…maybe it's because I sat next to you at the funeral, or because we've been seen once too often talking in the tea room – who knows, and quite frankly, who cares? I don't even care if Harry knows, any more. There have been romances on the Grid before, and no-one turned a hair…Adam and Fiona are married, for heaven's sake, and Harry's got no problem with them working together." In my growing agitation, I have started to pace up and down before her as I make my point.

"They used to talk about me, laugh, and whisper behind my back…the whole school…it was so humiliating…" Her voice is flat, her eyes opaque as ice. "They didn't understand why I was so quiet, why I shrank away from their games and their cliques and their endless chatter…and then they found out, I don't know how, but when we came back after that first Exeat, it was all over the school that my father had been killed…can you even begin to understand how that felt?" I feel a stab of shame at my behaviour, but now that the subject has finally been broached, I can't seem to help myself; all the pent-up frustration of the last few months over the secretive status of our relationship is threatening to vent itself like steam from a volcano.

Trying to maintain my usual calm countenance, I sit down beside her. "I can't imagine how awful that must have been for you, but this is different…these are our friends and colleagues, not a lot of malicious schoolgirls. And don't you think they have a right to know?" She shakes her head decisively. "I can't live my private life in public, Malcolm. I just can't." Churning my hands through my hair, I try to find a counter-argument, but can come up with none that will withstand her stubborn insistence. An insidious little thought worms its way into my brain; _what if it's not her, but me? _"Ruth, are you ashamed to admit that we're together?" I ask in a voice that is considerably less steady than I would like, as I recall Danny's reaction to discovering us at Havensworth. "Of course not...you're wonderful to me, the kindest, gentlest, most loving man I've ever been with...can't you see, this isn't about you, it's about me. And there's something else, Malcolm, something that worries me even more than being talked about…in our line of work, relationships are a liability…just look at what happened because they knew about Adam and Fiona…" I breathe slightly more easily, hearing this. Ruth is right; officers of the Service are regularly reminded of the dangers of being compromised, or worse, through their personal relationships. Secrecy is security for us, and our security depends on secrecy. I can't argue with that; it is central to everything we do, the cardinal rule. I exhale slowly, conceding defeat, striving for equilibrium.

After a minute or two, Ruth leans against my side. "It's hard for you, I know. I'm sorry that I'm so difficult…you deserve so much more. Someone nice and normal, someone who isn't in the Service. Someone less broken…" I give her a rueful half smile. "But then, they wouldn't be you." "So I'm broken, then?" she asks indignantly, eyes flashing, and daringly, I counter with, "If the shoe fits…" She gives me an appraising look, humour playing around her mouth, before pulling me to my feet. "Aren't you going to show me the other rooms?" And just like that, we are back on an even keel. I can see that being with Ruth will never be dull, but after a lifetime of loneliness, I am learning to adapt to the ebb and flow of our relationship, even as I realise that I have only just begun to understand this brilliant, flawed, beautiful woman, now standing on tiptoe to murmur in my ear, "_A kind heart he hath: a woman would run through fire and water, for such a kind heart..._"

_Well, quite._

**A/N: Ruth is quoting from The Merry Wives of Windsor. Shakespeare, of course.**


	38. Chapter 38

We spend a wonderful day together, Ruth exploring my home with the curiosity of a child and the appreciative eye of an aesthete; she knows the finer things in life when she sees them. The garden delights her most of all, and secretly I am thrilled, as I too love my garden best. It is my sanctuary, the place where I have sought peace and order and stability, in a life where I all too often witness events that threaten their loss. Over the years, I have patiently brought order to the once overgrown grounds; evidently, the upkeep of the property had proved beyond the ability, and the purse, of the previous owners.

Now, the tall box hedges are neatly clipped, the flower borders planted with colourful annuals in Spring and Autumn. The sadly neglected rose garden on the front lawn has been rejuvenated, the fine old rose bushes pruned back hard, nurtured and nursed into glorious bloom once more, their heady fragrance filling the air in early Summer. The ancient oak at the front of the house has been restored to health, and underneath, year after year, I have planted freesias and bluebells, snowflakes and daffodils; a medley of colour and perfume that resembles the vernal copses of the Heath itself, just beyond the hedge. The back garden is given over to a walled kitchen garden, a lawn with a summer house, and a pond with fat goldfish drifting lazily through the water lilies. Upon seeing them, reddish-gold and bronze against the dark water, Ruth exclaims, "They're huge! What are their names?" as she tries to count them all. There are fifteen; and it has never occurred to me to name them, so Ruth takes great pleasure in assigning a name from the Argonauts to each one. I will never remember which is which; but Ruth knows, and that is all that matters.

The kitchen garden is where I spend most of my time, now that the rest of the grounds have been restored; there is something so _satisfying_ in growing one's own food. Mother loves rhubarb, so one corner is given over to it, even though I don't much care for the sour stems. At summer's end, now fast approaching, I will turn over the soil, digging potatoes and onions to store in the shed, and then let it lie fallow over the winter. Along one wall raspberry canes are in need of cutting back, their fruiting season over; on another is my prized espalier apple tree, nearly a hundred years old, by my estimation, and still putting forth the delicious Cox's Orange Pippins which I remember from my childhood. I had not quite believed my eyes when I first found the tree, hidden behind a thicket of thistles and other weeds; it had been like discovering a Rembrandt hidden beneath a banal painting.

This part of the garden is always sunny, with its South-facing orientation, and Ruth basks in its sheltered warmth as she wanders amongst the beds. Turning to me, eyes sparkling, she comments, "It's so beautiful, but how on earth do you find the time for all this?" I flush slightly, but it's a fair question which deserves an honest answer. Scuffing my feet along the old brick path, I reply sheepishly, "I don't…I can only do what I have time for, so I have gardeners who come in a couple of times a week." Ruth frowns, "Are they safe?" I understand intuitively what she means_: have they been vetted? _Drawing level with her, I put an arm around her waist, and we walk on for a bit, before she nudges me to answer. "Yes, of course. Actually, they may have a higher clearance than either of us…" Ruth looks up at me then, puzzled, and I explain, "They used to work at Buck House; they're a father and son team, and when Ron – that's the father - retired from service, they decided to go into business for themselves. I was their first client…" Ruth is laughing, her body pressing against mine as she tries to get her breath…"Buck House? You mean…they're the _Queen's_ gardeners?! Oh, Malcolm!" Grinning back at her, I take her in both arms as we stand in the sun, enjoying the moment; when she regains control, I add, "You can imagine how pleased my mother was…I think she was on the phone for a week, calling everyone she knew…you would have thought the Queen herself was deadheading the roses!" Ruth puts her arms around my neck and draws me towards her for a kiss; when she releases me, suddenly feeling weak-kneed and breathless despite the clear, brisk day we are enjoying, she says, "No, I can't imagine. Don't you think it's about time you told me about your mother?"

I'm taken aback, at first, by the directness of her request, but then I see how things must look from her point of view: I cohabit with my mother, but I rarely refer to her, even to Ruth, and I certainly haven't offered to introduce the two women in my life. Having Ruth here, in my home, has changed things between us; our relationship feels more real, more tangible - more _normal_, I suppose, is the word I am looking for. "Yes, I suppose it is, but let's go into the summer house and sit down, first." When we are comfortably installed, with a view of the Heath rising up just beyond the end of the garden, and I have fetched a pot of tea, and some slices of Fortnum's Dundee cake, Ruth looks at me expectantly over her teacup, and I begin, trying to be as dispassionate as possible as I attempt to explain the unstable mass of neuroses, insecurities, petty vanities and massive snobbishness that is my mother.

"I suppose you think it odd that I haven't offered to introduce you to her, especially as we have been seeing each other for nearly nine months now. Believe me, if it was at all easy to do so, I would have, long ago." Ruth simply watches me, waiting for my next words. "And while you didn't – don't – want to tell anyone about us for your own reasons, I have to admit it suits me, too. My mother is…fragile…she was very dependent on my father, perhaps too dependent, and when he died, she had a breakdown. She was in and out of hospital for about a year, and during that time, she was diagnosed with cardiomyopathy. That made her even more fearful and nervous, of course, and eventually, she developed an arrhythmia, and needed a pacemaker…she came to live with me, after that. The doctors said that she shouldn't live by herself any more, and I had promised my father that I would look after her." Ruth nods; _so far, so good, _I think, bracing myself for the next revelation.

"As you know, I'm an only child…my mother always wanted another, but I believe there were several miscarriages, before they accepted that I was to be the sum total of their offspring. Mother was always a bit…overprotective… of me, and she became more so, once it became apparent that there would be no more little Wynn-Joneses. She had grand aspirations for me, or for the family name, rather…she saw me marrying very well, and restoring our fortunes…to be honest, I think she had read rather too many historical romances…when I brought Sarah home to meet my parents, after we had become engaged, she was bitterly disappointed." Ruth raises an enquiring eyebrow, her face carefully neutral.

Sighing, I explain, "Sarah was a junior clerk in the Home Office; I had been there for a couple of years, slowly being bored out of my brain, when she arrived. She hadn't been to an ancient university, or even a redbrick. She was from a working class background - she was the first in her family to get A Levels – in short, she was the antithesis of everything my mother had envisaged for me." _And had I not believed her to be pregnant at the time, it is highly unlikely we would ever have become engaged_…I blush as I recall how very ignorant, and innocent, I had been. "_As common as muck," had been my mother's opinion of Sarah, "No better than she should be, and not even a passable face or figure to speak of, she's far too skinny, but then, they all are these days…Malcolm, how could you?" her voice full of dislike and disappointment…_

"What, exactly, was she hoping for? Lady Diana?" Ruth sounds slightly more acerbic than I would have expected. "Well, yes, actually…certainly someone like that, from that milieu, would have fit the bill nicely, as far as she was concerned." Ruth's other eyebrow is elevated to join its fellow. I know how she feels. Mother always had hopelessly high expectations for me, and all I have done is disappoint her…but I could have no more existed in the vapid, vacuous world of high society that was my birthright, if not my inheritance, than I could live on the Moon. "Mother took the news of our engagement very badly…she left the room and went straight to bed with a migraine, and stayed there for three days. Sarah insisted on going back to London immediately…it was an unmitigated disaster. When Sarah left me, Mother bought a Waterford vase to celebrate…it's still in her parlour, next to that family photograph you saw." Ruth sits back, thinking.

"Let's see. I went to Cambridge, I have a First in Classics and in Philosophy, I speak six languages, I'm a competent musician, I do a difficult job which contributes to the nation's security, my father was a doctor… but if I don't have a title to my name, then all bets are off, as far as your mother is concerned? Is that it?" Her tone is undeniably combative, and I hasten to pour oil on troubled waters. "And all of those achievements and accomplishments are part of why you're so remarkable to me…I wouldn't have you any other way, than the brilliant, beautiful daughter of Dr Evershed, formerly of Exeter. It's just that my mother is very set in her ideas, and what with her living here… it would be very tricky to explain the nature of our relationship… she's old fashioned, even more so than me. That, among other things, is why I felt I should wait until she was away, before inviting you here."

Ruth locks eyes with me, before asking bluntly, "If it came down to a choice between us, who would win?" I had hoped to avoid such a discussion, but Ruth is used to dealing in hard facts, and cutting straight to the heart of the matter is second nature to her. "Who do you think, my darling? You've transformed my life, and I love you to distraction, but you should know that I love my mother too, for all her faults, and she needs me." Ruth's face is a study, as she tries to work out my answer, so I clarify further, "What I'm saying, I suppose, is that I hope you wouldn't ask me to make that choice, because it would be a cruel one." She looks away, then, and says softly, "I don't have the right to ask you that, I know…" My heart twists at her words, and for a wild moment, I imagine how things might be if she did have the right; if I were to propose to her, and if she were to accept, how would that change things? _Quite considerably_, I decide, exhaling heavily; how have we come to be wading through such heavy emotional weather? I glance up and see that the Heath is beckoning, cheerful in the sunlight, and impulsively, I suggest a walk; Ruth agrees immediately, obviously wanting to move off this awkward topic as well. Some things, I am learning, are better not said, better not analysed and dissected and talked to death. And some other things are as yet too bright and delicate to stand up to such rigorous cross-examination…

Collecting our coats from the house, we set off through the back gate which lets out onto the lovely green expanse of Hampstead Heath. Hand in hand, we follow the path that leads up to Parliament Hill, and pause at the crest to take in the sweeping view of London, glittering in the golden afternoon light, before continuing on over the Heath to Keats' house. We spend an enjoyable couple of hours there; Ruth has never seen it before, although she is of course familiar with the bittersweet story of Keats and his beloved muse, Fanny Brawne. On our way home, we take turns quoting bits of Keats as the mood takes us, and once more, I find myself wondering what everyday life with Ruth would be like. For a moment, I indulge in the fantasy; Ruth and me, walking through the woods, my ring bright on her finger, exchanging verses of poetry, on our way home to the house we share together. I forget about my mother, and Ruth's fears, and even about Five itself, as I imagine how it would be to share my life with hers. Ever since Ruth arrived, the truth has become harder and harder to ignore; I want her, in my life, in my home, and in my bed, forever. I want to wake up beside her each morning; I want hers to be the last face I see at night; I want to make love with her, provide for her, comfort her, and laugh with her every day, for the rest of our lives. Cutting into my cosy fantasy, this is an agonising realisation, and it occurs to me that the increasing tightness in my chest is not solely due to the physical effort of ascending Parliament Hill; I stop, and pat through my pockets, looking for my inhaler. _Ah, there it is_…I head towards the nearest bench, and sit down heavily, wheezing slightly until I deploy my medication…_that's better!_

"_Oh what can ail thee, knight-at-arms/alone and palely loitering?"_ Ruth, standing in front of me, gently squeezes my shoulder to get my attention, looking at me worriedly. "Malcolm? You were miles away, just then…are you all right?" _She mustn't know…it's too much, too soon…_ "I'm sorry, my love. I don't normally get short of breath like that, coming up here." I smile at her reassuringly and slide across so she can sit down, but she eschews the bench, choosing instead to sit on my lap, to my surprise. She leans back against me, her head on my shoulder; I can smell the faint scent of flowers after rain in her hair. Still amazed at this very public display of physical affection, even though there is no-one nearby, just a couple of people further down the hill, I wrap my unzipped Barbour jacket about her, then tuck my arms around her, sharing our warmth in the rapidly cooling air.

From our lofty vantage point, Ruth spots the dome of St Pauls', gleaming in the early evening sun, and points it out, a constant landmark in the ever-changing city skyline; it reminds me of my odd encounter in St Margaret's, the day that Danny was killed, and I remember that I haven't yet told her about it. She listens with rapt concentration as I recount my meeting with the old gentleman (I do not tell her about my crisis of faith: some things are best kept between a man and his Maker). When I have finished, she wipes away tears. "I miss him terribly, Malcolm. I still expect to see him laughing with Zoe, when I walk through the pods each morning …sometimes it feels like the whole place is populated with ghosts." I know what she means; the departed are always with us, in memory, and the Grid has a longer collective memory than most. She continues, "But I feel as if everyone else has moved on already, that Danny is just another name on the wall now." Ruth is referring to the sombre, smoked glass Wall of Remembrance in Thames House, Five's honour roll for officers who die in the line of duty, and possibly the most depressing and distressing place in the entire building.

"That's not quite true, my darling. Adam misses him – just yesterday I heard him ask Danny to do something, before he remembered. And Fiona hasn't yet been able to come back to work – how must she feel, knowing that he gave his life to save hers? Zaf didn't know him, but he still regrets the loss of an officer on his watch. I miss him, his decency and his quick wit, as much as his technical abilities on operations; and I want you to know that you can always talk to me about him. As for Harry…he might seem to be business as usual, but you don't know him like I do, and trust me, he is devastated…haven't you seen how much he has been drinking, lately?" I stop, berating myself for mentioning Harry, but it's true, he has been drinking too much, and I surmise that the self-medicating stems from the guilt he is suffering over Danny's death. She looks at me, concern writ large in her eyes. _Damn, damn, damn…_ "Is he? I hadn't noticed, but then, I haven't really been noticing much lately…should I start topping up his decanter with cold tea, d'you think?"

Despite the seriousness of the topic being discussed, I chuckle at her unexpected humour; I can just imagine Ruth sneaking into the inner sanctum, funnel in hand, and doctoring Harry's beloved twelve year old single malt whisky with a pot of PG Tips. She begins to laugh too, and we give in to a wave of mirth, the strained atmosphere dissipating in an instant. Recovering, I become contemplative once more. "Ruth, you know I've been in this job a long time now, and I've known many good officers, good people, whose names are on that wall; but I remember every single one of them, and I do my best to honour their memory each day, through my own work. It's the only monument that makes any sense to me." Her answering smile is radiant, despite the sheen of tears still in her eyes. "And that is what makes you who you are; you have integrity, Malcolm, and that's a precious thing, in this compromised world. It's one of the things I admire most about you…" My heart leaps at this: _she admires me!_

In a rush of confidence, I hear myself say, "Ruth, there's something I have been wanting to ask you…"I stop; her whole body has become tense all at once, and she appears to be holding her breath. Disconcerted, I hastily add, "It's not anything earth-shattering." Ruth still looks doubtful, so I continue," I was just wondering if…if you would like to stay for a few more nights?" She starts to breathe again, and her eyes light up, and then become thoughtful, as she gives my invitation her full consideration. "Oh, I'd love to, but what about my cats? And going to work…we couldn't arrive together…what if your mother came home suddenly, or if someone from the Grid went to my place, and I wasn't there?"

I address her concerns one by one, desperate to convince her to stay. "You could always board your cats - I'd be happy to pay – what do you usually do with them if you're away?" She pulls my arms closer about her. "If I'm only away for a couple of nights, or we're working late, I ask my neighbours to look after them…they think I travel a lot for work." Curious, I ask her, "What do they think you do?" There is a slight pause before she replies. "Program coordinator for an overseas aid NGO…I'm always a bit vague about the exact details, but so far they've bought it, and so has my family." _Yes, I bet they have…Ruth even looks the part, with her exotic jewellery and unusual clothes. _"But if I go on holidays…not that I've been since working at Five… I either take the cats to Mum's, or put them into boarding at the vet's." "So that's one objection resolved; they can be boarded for the week…next, going to work…the fact of the matter is, I won't be, not for the next week, at least."

At this unexpected statement, Ruth squirms round to face me, straddling my lap, and I gasp at the movement and pressure of her body against mine; she looks at me innocently enough, but she is fully aware of the effect she is producing; the gleam in her eye tells me everything I need to know. Forcing myself to refocus, I continue, "I always have a week off, when Mother is away, and my leave starts tomorrow. Usually I go away, up to Scotland, or down to Cornwall; somewhere by the sea, anyway. This year, I had been playing with the idea of Italy…but I wouldn't want to go by myself." Ruth's eyes grow big at the mention of Italy; she says wistfully, "Oh, I've always wanted to go…I've never been to the Continent…silly, really, seeing as I speak French, Spanish and Greek…" I store this snippet of information away, immediately imagining surprising her with a romantic weekend in Paris, or Florence, or some little island in the Cyclades…"So, other than pottering in the garden and perhaps taking in the Turner exhibition at the National Gallery, I have no plans at present…so if you like, we could do a few things…dinner, or the theatre, perhaps?" Ruth beams at me, and from a distance of about six inches, the effect is dazzling. "Could we go to the Globe? They're performing _Much Ado About Nothing_…I love that play!" _Of course you do,_ I think, even as I respond in the affirmative – I'm rather fond of Beatrice and Benedick, myself.

"As for my mother, she loves Bournemouth, and she won't come home until I drive down and collect her – if the weather holds, she may even decide to stay on (_especially_ _ if I speak to my Aunt Emily and tell her I need a little longer…) _Finally, I'm not entirely certain why anyone from the Grid would need to go to your house, but the simplest way around that is to tell them you're not going to be there this week…say your place is being rewired and you're staying at your mother's … I can easily arrange to make it look authentic. Was there anything else?" Ruth giggles, a rare sound, and shakes her head, _No_. "It looks like I'm all yours, then," she tells me…_oh, Ruth, if only_… she wriggles closer, and I tighten my hold on her as our embrace intensifies, setting my pulse rate soaring and my blood rushing downwards until I feel dizzy with desire. "Not here…we'll be arrested!" I finally manage to get out; she looks around at the almost empty parklands, only the odd jogger here or dog walker there. "I suppose your bed _is _more comfortable, and warmer too," she concedes; we nearly tumble down the hill like Jack and Jill, in our haste to get home.

Later, we bathe together; there is easily room for two in the deep, old-fashioned tub in my bathroom. Ruth stretches out luxuriously between my legs, her breasts floating in the warm water. The sight brings to mind the strange dream I had at Toad Hall, of placing a pearl between her breasts, and her horrified reaction and subsequent flight. It all seems so silly, now, as I knead her shoulders gently, and she makes noises of contentment deep in her throat. "We'll have to get out soon, if we want to go across to the village for dinner," I remind her, but she groans in protest at the thought; my hands glide downwards, and she draws a sharp breath as they come into contact with her nipples, before she bats my hands away. "I'm exhausted, but starving," she informs me. "So I am I… but I'm sure we can find something to eat, downstairs."

We climb out of the cooling bath, towel each other dry, then pull on pyjamas, dressing gowns and slippers, in my case, and fluffy socks in Ruth's; at her insistence, she wears my old wool dressing gown, with the cuffs turned back twice, while I am clad in a heavy silk robe that once belonged to my father. If we were starving before, we are ravenous now, and we ransack the kitchen in a way that Mother would heartily disapprove of: cheese and tinned peaches and biscuits and ham and tomatoes and Dundee cake and leftover cold salmon are all unearthed and carried through to the drawing room; Ruth head back into the kitchen to boil up some potatoes, while I lay a fire, at her suggestion.

"Can't we have a carpet picnic, and a fire?" she pleads, her eyes glowing at the idea, and feeling like a little boy, I eagerly agree. _Meals don't need to be taken in dining rooms, or at tables, after all_… by the time I have got the fire burning nicely and drawing properly, Ruth comes back, carrying a dish of potatoes, their pinkish skins split open, glistening with butter. She scouts round for cushions, and finally settles for retrieving two from the parlour _– Mother would have a fit at her favourite Laura Ashleys going onto the floor_ – and we settle down in front of the fire with plates balanced on our laps and a bottle of Beaujolais between us. When we are replete, Ruth lies down, putting her head in my lap, sighing happily as I stroke her hair, then trace the outline of her cheekbone and jaw over and over, committing her to memory. She reaches up to take my hand, weaving her fingers through mine.

"This is so nice…don't you wish every day could be like this?" she murmurs. _Ah, Ruth, you have no idea how fervently I wish it_, I think, looking down at her; I have to bite my tongue to stop myself from proposing to her here and now, settling instead for, "Ruth, you make me so happy." She turns to look at me, and says, "Don't. I don't like the idea of being responsible for your happiness, when most of the time I can't even seem to manage my own…" And there it is again, her black dog, lurking in the shadows cast by the firelight, always there, seemingly forever just out of reach, like Ruth herself. "My darling, I didn't mean to upset you…I merely meant to say that, that…" Words fail me, choked by the fullness of my heart, as she gazes at me, the firelight reflected in the depths of those luminous eyes, her lips curving into a smile. "I know you didn't mean to. It's just that knowing something, and believing it, are two very different things… haven't you ever wished for something, and then, when it finally arrived, you didn't recognise it at first, because the reality was so different to what you thought you wanted?" I nod, unable to speak; she tightens her fingers around mine reassuringly.

"Well, that's how I feel about all this. About us. At the beginning of this year, I thought I was in love with a successful businessman who had a bad knee and likes to sing Mozart…it wasn't real, but if I hadn't followed that path, I would never have known how you felt about me. I would never have found you, instead of an idealised character based on some surveillance recordings, and my own imagination. I've lived in my head for most of my life, where things can be ordered as I like… I don't very often meet someone who exists in both worlds at once, so it's hard for me, when it does happen, to separate out reality from my own thoughts… and sometimes, I have to be reminded of what's real…does any of that make sense, or do I sound completely mad?" Ruth's eyes, which had been focused on the flickering, dying flames while she speaks, return to mine, anxiously seeking my answer.

I too have lived most of my life in my head, but I am not having the difficulties that Ruth describes; instead, I have begun to find it hard to keep the rest of the world in focus whenever we are together: it seems to blur and recede slightly, and it is only with an effort that I maintain a normal awareness of everything around me. "You don't sound mad, unless being in love is a kind of madness in and of itself… certainly there are a lot of poets who would agree, don't you think?" I venture. She turns away to watch the last embers of the fire, flickering in the grate, and after a while I hear her whisper drowsily, "There is always some madness in love, but there is also always some reason in madness…" _Nietzsche…only Ruth would think of Nietzsche, even while half asleep in her lover's lap…_

It is getting late, and I am decidedly too old to sleep on the floor, even if it is covered by a silken carpet. "Ruth. Ruth? Come to bed, my love…"She mutters something incoherent, and so I carefully ease myself out from beneath her head, replacing my lap with a cushion, and go about the business of tidying up our feast, and raking apart the fire until the last sparks die down. Ruth is fast asleep by the time I crouch beside her, and gather her into my arms; like many men, I am far stronger than I look. As I straighten up, she rouses enough to wind her arms about my neck, allowing me to carry her upstairs to our bed. My final waking thought is, _So this is what it would be like, to have her here beside me each night_…_to have and to hold_…

We have a marvellous week.

**A/N: On Parliament Hill, Ruth is quoting from Keats' **_**La Belle Dame Sans Merci**_**.**


End file.
